“’Ces—” Davie said worriedly, but she took the flask. She winced at the feeling of the whiskey sliding down her throat. She hated hard liquor.
“I don’t like my clients to drink alcohol before they go under the needle. Increases the bleeding,” the bearded, shaggy-haired tattoo artist said gruffly as he entered the parlor where she stood with her three friends.
“Oh, well in that case—” Francesca hedged, seeing a possible out.
“Don’t be a wuss,” Justin insisted. “Bart isn’t going to send you away because you’ve had a drink or two, are you Bart? He has serious ethics, but he forgets about them pretty quick when cash is on the line.”
The tattoo artist glared at Justin, but Justin glared back.
“Lower your pants and get up on the table then,” Bart snapped.
Francesca began to unbutton her jeans. Davie, Justin, Caden, and Bart watched as she lay, belly down, on the table.
“Here, let me help with that!” Caden volunteered eagerly as she began to work her jeans and panties down over her right buttock. Davie grabbed his arm, halting him with a forbidding scowl. Caden just shrugged, grinning sheepishly.
“Right here?” Bart asked roughly a few seconds later, stepping forward. His touch on Francesca’s skin sent a shudder of revulsion through her.
“Yeah, you could make one of those gorgeous dimples above her ass a sort of paint pot for the dipping brush.”
Francesca started at the sound of Justin’s subdued tone. She peered sideways. Justin was regarding her partially bared ass with frank male interest.
“Maybe we should have a look at the other cheek just to get a clear picture of things,” Caden suggested.
“Shut up, you two,” she grated out. It made her uncomfortable to have Justin and Caden look at her that way. Maybe this was a stupid idea, after all. Her thoughts scattered when Bart approached, a tube in his hand with a needle protruding out of it. She noticed that his fingernails were dirty. She feared needles. The whiskey seemed to boil in her stomach.
“Wait, you guys, I don’t know about this,” she mumbled, her eyes clamped shut as she tried to fight off a wave of dizziness.
“Come on, ’Cesca. Hey . . . what the fuck—”
Her head sprang up at the sound of Caden’s surprised exclamation, the abrupt gesture sending her hair flying in her face and temporarily blinding her. She felt Bart’s grip on her jerk as if someone had grabbed his arm.
“Let go of her this instant, or I swear I’ll make it so you never live or work in this town again.” Bart’s grip on her jeans slackened. “Francesca, get up.”
She followed Ian’s concise instructions without thinking twice. She clambered off the table and pulled up her jeans, gaping at Ian’s furious, rigid countenance in stark disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
He didn’t reply, just continued to pin Bart with a lancing stare. After she’d fastened her button fly, he put out his hand and grabbed her forearm. She stumbled after him when he began to stalk out of the parlor. He paused in front of the dazed trio of Davie, Caden, and Justin. He seemed to loom over them like a dark, forbidding tower.
“You three are her friends?” Ian asked.
Davie nodded, his face looking pale.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Justin seemed to come to himself. He stepped forward as if to argue, but Davie cut him off.
“No, Justin. He’s right,” Davie said soberly.
Justin’s face turned brick red, and he seemed prepared to argue, but Francesca stopped him this time. “It’s okay, you guys. Really,” she assured Justin tensely before she followed Ian out of the tattoo parlor, her hand firmly gripped in his.
She had trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride once they were walking along the dark, tree-lined street. She really didn’t think she was that drunk, so why had the world taken on the sheen of unreality ever since she’d heard Ian’s authoritative voice ordering Bart to let her go?
“Do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?” she asked breathlessly as she trotted next to him.
“You dropped your guard again, Francesca,” he said with tight-lipped fury.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
He came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, pulled her into his arms and swooped down, kissing her roughly. Sweetly. Why couldn’t she tell the difference when it came to Ian’s kisses?
She moaned into his mouth, her body going rigid before it molded against his long length. His taste and scent hit her like a tsunami of lust. Her nipples pinched tight, as if that sensitive flesh had learned to associate his taste with pleasure. He tore his mouth from hers way sooner than she’d expected—or wanted—given how hot and hard he felt.
God, how she wanted him. The blazing, obvious truth hadn’t fully hit her until that moment. She’d never considered that a man like Ian would be interested in her sexually, so she hadn’t allowed herself to fully acknowledge her desire for him.
The distant streetlight made his eyes gleam in his otherwise shadowed face as he looked down at her. She felt anger and lust resonating off his body in equal measure.
“How dare you even consider letting that unlicensed scumbag put a needle to your skin? And what kind of a little fool bares her ass to a roomful of slavering men?” he bit out.
She gasped. “‘Slavering men’ . . . Those are my friends.” She blinked, absorbing the rest of what he’d said. “Bart doesn’t have a license? Wait . . . how did you even know where I was?”