Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) (2 page)

“Where do I change?” she asked.

Walsh pointed to the hallway leading to the back of the shop. “Back there, second door on the right. Take everything off and put on the robe.”

“Everything?” she asked. “I just want my back done.”

“If you want your pretty blue skirt ruined, then leave it on.”

Walsh tracked Bridget as she walked to the changing room, hips swaying with authority. “Damn,” he whispered, as his thoughts turned to what she was wearing underneath that business chic suit of hers.

Two

Bridget emerged from the dressing room more confused than when she happened upon INK in the middle of the night. Why was she here? What had driven her to leave the FBI field office at midnight and roam Richmond Heights, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Miami, alone? She didn’t even have her badge and gun on her, and that wasn’t like her. Yet something told her that she could trust Walsh; she didn’t need to run his name through the bureau’s database to know that. He seemed removed, yet had a strange sweetness about him. And boy did she like the way he looked: six feet tall, muscles that went on and on, and ruby red hair–her favorite. She always had a soft spot for the gingers. He was covered in tattoos, the exact opposite of her type, but had a kindness to him and an unsettledness she could see in his eyes.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

Walsh pointed to the chair. Bridget noticed how he took her in, scanning the length of her with his eyes, and she felt warmness spread between her legs. She liked the way he looked at her.

“Here,” he said, pointing to what looked like belonged in a dentist’s office.

Bridget sat down, and the coolness of the leather made her nipples peak. She noticed how Walsh tried not to look.

With foot controls under the chair, he lowered her horizontal. “Turn over, please,” he said with professionalism.

Bridget turned onto her stomach. She felt Walsh slide the robe away from her shoulders, letting it rest along her waistline. He adjusted the overhead light so that it was away from her face. Then he spoke to her.

“This is an intricate design. It will be best to handle it in chunks starting with the small of the back and branching upward. How does that sound?”

She could feel his hot breath over her skin. “Sounds fine.”

“Good.”

She heard the slap of latex and felt him place a gloved hand between her shoulder blades. His other hand held the tattoo gun to her flesh. She exhaled a nervous breath when he turned it on and a humming buzz filled her ears.

“This is going to hurt a bit. Breathe through it, OK?”

“Fine. Come on. Let’s go.” Bridget could have done without all the handholding. Of course she knew that it was going to hurt. That was why she was here; she wanted to feel something, anything. Emptiness didn’t suit her. She hated it, and no matter how she tried to fill it, with booze, or running, or work, her insides remained hollow.

With the needle piercing her skin, Walsh got to work. She gasped as the pain hit her like a hundred bee stings at once, and held her breath and waited for it to abate.

“Don’t hold your breath. Breathe through it, sweetheart,” he said.

“Don’t call me that.”

Walsh laughed.

“Something funny?” she asked.

“If you’re mad, you can’t hold your breath, right?”

Bridget nodded. He was right to trick her because she wouldn’t have listened to him otherwise. She breathed deep, in through her nose and out through her mouth, just like in all those pricey yoga classes that didn’t work.

“That’s it. Good.” Walsh’s voice trailed off in concentration. “Keep breathing.”

Time slowed. Walsh wiped his brow more than once. Tiny stings from the gun pierced her skin over and over. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, the gun broke contact and Walsh ventured on to a new patch of flesh.

“Doing OK?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

She found his voice soothing and distracting from the pain. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and saw the thin vial he wore on a leather string around his neck sway with his movements.

“Can you keep talking to me? It takes my mind off of it.”

“Sure,” Walsh said. “What should I talk about?”

“How long have you had this shop?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“About six years.”

“And what did you do before this?”

“That’s a tough question, one I’d rather not go into right now.”

“You were in jail, weren’t you? Please don’t tell me you were in jail for murdering girls in blue skirts.”

He laughed, and shook his head playfully. “No,” he said. “At least I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? That’s not very encouraging.”

A sharp line of heat went from the small of her back to her right side. “Ow!” she cried.

“Sorry. That was the bottom of the vine. Keep breathing,” he said. “Here comes another one. Ready?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Bridget braced herself as the gun scorched her skin. And then it stopped; the pain, the buzzing, the burning, all of it ceased.

“Wanna see it?” Walsh asked.

“You’re finished already?” Bridget asked.

“The first part, yes.”

He eased the robe back over her shoulders and helped her sit up. He got behind her and waited until she lifted the fabric to expose the small of her back. He then held a large oval mirror so that she could examine his handy-work.

“Wow,” she said. “Look at that.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Yes, very,” she said. “At this rate, I’ll be buying you bagels for breakfast in no time.”

Walsh turned toward her then. “Unfortunately, this is about all you can do today. We’ll schedule you a proper appointment sometime next week so your skin has time to heal.”

“Next week? Why can’t we continue? I’m paying you good money to do a job, Walsh.”

“Correction. You paid me to open my shop in the middle of the night. Your body can’t handle a full back tat in one sitting. Nobody can.”

Bridget fixed her eyes on him. She was disappointed, yes, but she also didn’t want to leave. Not just yet.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to kiss you,” he said.

Her heart jumped. She opened her mouth as if to protest, and shut it again. The way he looked at her, burning a deep hole with his eyes, made her restless. This was why she was here, wasn’t it? She wanted to feel, and forget, and live a life away from the sterility and order of the FBI.

She bit her lip. Her cheeks flushed, and the smile that crept across her lips was impossible to hide from him. She felt her nipples harden under the thin cotton robe. She played with the hem of the fabric before sweeping her fingers to her chest and divided the folds that covered her.

The robe slipped to the floor.

"Then kiss me," she said.

Three

Walsh's cock throbbed. The way she said it, then kiss me, burned through him. Without hesitation, he grabbed her around the waist and yanked their bodies together. He crushed his lips against hers and breathed in her scent. He hungrily explored her nakedness until his hands found purchase around her smooth, tight ass. He squeezed and she let out a long, heavy sigh, encouraging him. She gasped between short darts of tongue, teasing him with her mouth. Her hand then slid from his chest to rest on his crotch. She stroked him outside his jeans, taking in his shape and size. He moaned in her ear as she shoved her hand inside his jeans and pumped his length. If she kept that up, she was going to undo him before too long, and that wouldn’t have made a good first impression, he was sure of it.

“Let’s go my office,” he whispered.

Her hand stopped. She backed up until her naked ass touched the tattoo chair. “This will do fine,” she said as a sultry smile washed across her face. Her silky blonde hair hung tasseled, falling just below her ample breasts, and it drove him wild.

“My lucky day.” Walsh undid his jeans and stepped out of the denim heap that slid to the floor. He then gathered that long hair of hers in a loose grip at the back of her head. She sighed with approval. His other hand trailed down her breasts. He squeezed one nipple, then the other, both responding to his touch. His hand then slid down her flat navel until he reached the moistened folds between her legs. He found her most sensitive spot with ease and massaged it with soft circles. She moaned and hissed with pleasure. He watched her beautiful face as she writhed against his hard working fingers. Then decidedly, as if taking control, she smacked his hand away.

“Not yet,” she said.

She backed him up, and spun around so that he was now leaning against the chair. She then fell to her knees.

She licked his swollen head and a deep gasp filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled before she drank the entire length of his throbbing shaft. She plunged her head deep on to his cock. One. Two. Three, he counted. So deep that Walsh feared for her. She released him and teased the swollen head before stroking him, like a piston, with her eager mouth.

“Feel so good,” he hissed.

Bridget stood, her green eyes boring into him: raw, hot, and very much in control. “Tell me,” she said, and took to her knees again. One hand rested on his rock hard abs while the other stroked his cock. “Tell me how it feels, Walsh.”

He gathered her hair in his fist and watched as his cock slowly disappeared into her hot mouth. “Watching you suck me off,” Walsh said, throaty and low-pitched. “It makes me want to knock the bottom out of you.”

Her head moved faster now, taking every inch of him at a feverish pace. What was she trying to do, finish him off right then and there? The faster she went, the more the pressure built. Soon he would lose control.

“No,” he said and withdrew himself from her mouth. “Not yet.”

She smiled up at him and stood up. “As you wish,” she said.

Without hesitation, he scooped her up and laid her down on the chair. A soft squeal of pain escaped her lips as the leather touched her newly tattooed flesh.

“On second thought,” he said, and raised her up again. With bodies intertwined, Walsh lowered them to the hardwood floor. His back would ache tomorrow, but tonight he didn’t give a fuck. Bridget squealed with laughter when his ass made a contact slap. With her legs hugging his body, she straddled him.

With a gentle nudge, he guided her to his face. He gripped her buttocks firmly, and clamped down on her soft wet folds, licking until they parted for him. Sweet and moist, she even tasted beautiful. Bridget hissed as his tongue explored her, devouring her with his mouth, licking and sucking and caressing her softness until she squirmed and moaned with pleasure. Soon, her breath quickened. She bucked her hips in time with his gyrating tongue, greedy for a blissful release. Working his mouth, rhythmically sucking her clit and lapping at her opening, his cock throbbed as an orgasm ripped through her gorgeous little body.

Like a feral animal, she needed no time to recover. Scooting her luscious ass backward until her crotch touched the tip of his cock, she asked in a breathy, hungry voice, “Are you ready for me, Walsh?”

“Can’t you tell?” he said with a sly smile.

With her hand, Bridget gently guided him into her. She gasped as she lowered herself down, inch by inch. Her hips pumped. She rode him, rising and falling, and closed her eyes as her pert breasts moved to her rhythm. He reached up and gripped them, squeezing the flesh and pinching her nipples until she gasped. She rode him until she stiffened and cried out. When she began to buck and convulse, Walsh took charge. He heaved his hips upward, bouncing her on his cock, and watched as she pinched her own nipples as she rode.

“Yes. Fuck me!” she cried out. “Faster. Don’t stop. Faster.”

Bridget was his. Panting and gasping, she arched her back and was lost in her own perfect moment. With one jarring thrust, he was also lost, and found, inside her tight, hot pussy.

Bridget collapsed on top of him and their chests heaved in unison. She moved off him suddenly and rolled to the floor. He wanted to make her comfortable; he knew the ink on her back was raw and sore, but she was disinterested in his concern.

“Do you want to move to the couch?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

The space between them filled with heavy silence. He wanted to know everything about her; where she was from, what she liked, but most of all, he wanted to know why she happened upon his shop in the dead of night.

“How’s the ink feel?” he asked.

“A little sore and scratchy. Is that normal?”

Walsh chuckled. “Yeah. In a few days, it should stop.”

Something stirred inside him. In that moment he realized that since she had come into the shop, his thoughts of The Blue Woman had ceased. Was that all it took? A good lay? Something pulled at his chest. Without thinking, he cleared his throat. "That drawing you were looking at, the one in the window?"

“Yes, what about it?”

Her back was to him now. He wished she would turn so he could look at her and tell her what he has never told anyone before. He listened to her breathe. "I see it everywhere: in my sleep, during the day, everywhere, I see The Blue Woman.”

“The Blue Woman?” Bridget asked.

“That’s what I call her, because of the way her dark hair shines blue in the moonlight.”

Bridget rolled over and faced him, her blonde hair cascading around her bare breasts. It made him want her all over again.

“I can see her as clear as I can see you lying next to me. I can see the swords gleaming in moonlight. I can see her hair wisp around her face." Walsh shook his head as if catching himself before falling into a dream.

"Who is she?"

"I have no idea."

"Do you want to?"

“Very much.”

“Why not find her then?” Bridget leaned over and kissed him hard and hungry on the mouth.

Walsh found that question interesting. Was he drawn to finding out the meaning behind his visions of the woman? Yes. Did he think she had something to do with the life he couldn’t remember? Yes. Did he think she was real? No. Walsh played with the vial that dangled around his neck absentmindedly.