And my dad?
He watches his fucking back. I know he hates everything about me—who I love and who I work for—but that’s his problem. And a problem he keeps to himself to protect his precious image. We see my mom on occasion, but she’s more concerned with her next pill fix than the well-being of her own son.
I don’t care, though. Cope is more than I could ever need. He’s the only family I want. Our love is more than enough and it fills me the fuck up.
“Our nieces miss us,” I tell him and then sip my coffee. “What are you working on?”
He holds up his artwork. An intricate maze with all kinds of fine details. Roses. Vines. Butterflies. It’s girly as shit, but cool as hell.
“For a client?”
“Yeah,” he says, tossing the notebook on the table and picking up his coffee. “Full back piece.” Then he calls out to Faye. “Watch the front. Gotta go crunch numbers.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Faye sings back in her cute English accent. Then she makes a not so cute crude gesture with her hand and mouth. “Dirty bastards.”
Cope laughs. “You’re fired.”
“Nice try, asshole,” she chirps back.
We laugh as we push into Cope’s “office.” It has a station where he tattoos people, but in one corner is his desk. Just like his desk back when we were teenagers, it’s piled with all kinds of stupid shit. He’s messy. I thought I was messy, but turns out, my boyfriend is way fucking messier.
I set down my coffee and shrug out of my jacket. He walks over to me, tugging at my tie until our mouths meet.
“I missed you,” he says, nipping at my bottom lip.
“You saw me at lunch.”
“I can still miss you, dickhead.”
We both laugh and he tugs away my tie. His fingers effortlessly fly through my buttons. I rid myself of the dress shirt and undershirt.
He taps at his lip ring as he studies his canvas. With my hands on my hips, I wait patiently for him to mark me in some other way. I love that every single tattoo on my body was given to me by him. And, now, I have many. I don’t have them crawling up my neck like Cope, but I have a bunch.
“How about here,” he says, running his finger along my V muscle groove. “I love this spot.”
I laugh and run my fingers along the black word “MINE” on the other side of my V that he tattooed on me probably four years ago. “I know.”
We get situated and he begins his art. While he brands me, I tell him about a new client from Edinburgh. I know Cope couldn’t care less about his dad’s finance firm or the branch I run here in London, but I tell him anyway. The fact I care means he cares. I spend all week bringing in new clientele and then I spend the weekend bent over Cope’s messy desk as I try to make sense of his mountain of receipts. If he didn’t pay me handsomely with his dick, I’d tell him to hire an accountant.
“What do you think?”
I look down at the “FOREVER” that runs along the groove. “Looks badass.”
“Forever,” he says, running his gloved finger over his handiwork, “mine.”
“That all I get?” I ask, arching a brow.
He leans in and kisses my mouth. “Too busy to blow you today.”
“Guess you have to let me fuck you later to make up for it.” My dick is hard just thinking about dragging him upstairs to our small studio flat above the shop and fucking his brains out. “I was actually wondering if you could do one that’s permanent.”
Cope pulls away and toys with his lip ring with his tongue, which doesn’t help the state of my cock that’s bulging in my slacks. “They’re all permanent.” His brow lifts like, Why are you fucking with me?
“I want one on my finger,” I tell him, my eyes searing into his.
He frowns. “Mr. Finance Man wouldn’t look so professional with ink on his finger. That’s Business World No-No 101.”
“Does it look like I give a fuck about what other people think?” I challenge. “I want a ‘C’ right here.” His eyes follow the movement of my hand to my wedding ring finger. Then, they snap back to mine.
“For real?”
“For real.”
He sets to work, his brows furrowed in concentration. Within fifteen minutes, I have a cool ‘C’ on my finger. I grin like an idiot.
“Faye!” he bellows. “Emergency staff meeting!”
A few seconds later, she sashays in with her eyebrows lifted. “What?”
Cope points at my finger and then points at his own. “I need you to ink me.”
Her bright red lips curl into a wide smile. “A ‘P’?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a bright smile on his face, “and don’t fuck it up.”