Kissing Kennedy (Claimed 4)

The tattoo doesn't take long, but by the time he's finished, we're both shaking. He doesn't try to convince me to tell him what I have in mind for the other spot. Having his hands on me for any length of time, even just on my arm, leaves me aching with need.

He's a conundrum, so hard on the outside, yet so soft beneath the surface. There are depths to him you'd never expect just by looking at him. He wears his tattoos like armor, I think, carefully masking his vulnerabilities beneath the things that helped to shape and form them.

When he touches me, I feel both sides of him. The fierce man who wants to dominate and possess, and the gentle lover who wants to worship and adore. They both make me burn hotter than the sun. They both make my heart go wild with love for him.

He wraps the tattoo carefully, and then instructs me on how to take care of it. I have a feeling I won't be needing those instructions though. I can already tell by the look in his eye that he plans to be the one to take care of it for me.

I don't mind. He's taught me something I never expected to learn about myself. Something I didn't know was even possible. You can be independent and still be a little bit submissive. You can forge your own path and blaze your own trail, but still want to be cared for and protected. I don't have to do everything on my own to be my own person. I don't have to change for the world or pretend I'm anything more or less than I am.

I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart.

He looks at me and sees the independent, ambitious woman, the one with hopes and dreams and goals and the ability to stand up for herself. It doesn't matter if the rest of the world sees it. He does. He sees it…and he loves it.

It's not lost on me how completely opposite we are. Nor is it lost on me how much beauty there is in contrast. Light and dark, hard and soft, yin and yang. They work best together. I have a feeling Asher and I work better together too. We fit because we were made for one another.

He's crazy…but I am too. For him. Only ever for him.

"I love it, Asher," I murmur, running my hand down the side of his cheek after he has my tattoo all wrapped up and ready to go.

He lifts his eyes to me and smiles. The whole world stares back from those mysterious gray depths. No, gray isn't a dull, boring color. It's the color of love, of light and dark all mixed up together. He's a little bit heaven and a little bit hell. And he's all mine.

"I want you," I whisper as he strips his gloves off and tosses them in the trash.

He rises like the sun, slowly, completely eclipsing everything else.

"You have me."

"Make love to me, Asher," I demand, not ashamed to tell him what I want. With him, I could never feel shame. He wouldn't let me.

He swallows hard and holds his hand out to me. "Come with me," he says.

I take his hand. Of course I do.

Instead of going out the way we came in, he leads me through another door and then up a flight of stairs. I never questioned before where he lived, but when he unlocks the door upstairs, I realize he lives here, above Crimson Ink. He didn't have a home, so he built his own right here.

More of his art hangs in frames on the walls, lending color to the monochromatic living room. The walls are all white, the furniture black. The end tables are silver. A thick gray rug stretches across the floor. The art is the focal point, drawing my eye again and again as we pass through the room on the way to his bedroom.

Art hangs all along the hallway as well. I can't wait to examine each piece. I know they all mean something to him. His art is personal, just like his tattoos. The thought of uncovering the story behind each piece is exciting to me. He's like a book. The longer you read, the more you uncover. His story is so damn fascinating.

"I love your room," I murmur. Like the living room, it's in monochromatic shades. The only art is a massive abstract triptych hanging above his big bed. Reds, blues, pinks, and purples are all swirled together. It looks like the universe.

Asher grunts and then pulls me into his arms. "It's a helluva lot nicer with you standing in the middle of it, Kennedy."

I love the things he says to me. They aren't cheesy lines or innocent flirtation. He says exactly what he thinks. I never have to question if he's being serious or not. I know he is.

He bends toward me, tracking kisses down the side of my face. "Knowing you're wearing my art has my cock so hard I can't think," he mutters into my skin, his hands questing all over my body. "Never knew giving a wrist tattoo could be such a turn on."

"Me neither," I whisper, running my hands up his stomach. His whole body is a work of art. Not just the tattoos, but him. He's sculpted from marble, each muscle chiseled perfection. I slip my hand beneath the hem of his shirt, feeling bold and daring and a little bit naughty.

"Kennedy," he growls when I scratch my nails across his abs.

"What? You don't like it?" I do it again, testing him.

He growls and grabs my hand, raking it down his body and then pressing it over his cock. "Does that feel to you like I don't like it, angel baby?" he asks, and then throws his head back and fires a round of curses up at the ceiling as I squeeze him.

"You're so hard."

His agonized chuckle is way too hot. "Believe me, I know, angel. Been that way since I saw you at the rehearsal dinner. I was mad as hell you left."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to leave you hanging to do your part, but I had a class."

He tilts his head forward to look at me. "That's why you think I was mad?"

I shrug.

He shakes his head and then pries my hand off him. "That's not it, angel baby."

"Oh." I frown. "Then why?"

"What were you thinking about?" he asks, tugging my shirt up and then pulling it off over my head. He does so carefully to avoid bumping my tattoo. It doesn't really hurt though. It feels a little like I touched a hot surface for a split second. He says that's because the inner wrist is one of the least painful places to get a tattoo. "When you looked at me, I mean."

"What was I–?" I frown, trying to remember. "I was wondering what story your eyes were trying to tell me," I say, thinking back to the moment I looked up and saw him standing there. "There was so much hiding in them."

"That's why," he growls, yanking me back into his arms. His mouth comes down on mine, his kiss hard and hot. He palms my ass through my jeans, squeezing my cheeks. "I looked at you and saw my future staring back at me. I wanted to know what you were thinking about so badly it drove me crazy."