Inked. Anne Marsh

corners of his mouth quirk up.

      I sort of hate him for the way my panties promptly get wet.

      Vik sets his hands on my hips—my hips—and tugs me closer. He links his hands on top of my butt, fingers skating dangerously close to inked territory, and then he rests his forehead against mine.

      “You don’t have to dance well,” he whispers. I’m pretty sure his mouth brushes my hair. My cup is jammed between us and I have no idea what to do with my spare hand.

      “Okay?” New Me, I remind myself. She might turn out to be an awesome closet dancer, so I should make the effort to find out. My feet are still rooted to the floor, though, when somebody jostles us and I slop punch on the front of Vik’s shirt. His white shirt. Kill. Me.

      “God, I, shoot...” I scrub at the front of his shirt. The stain is approximately the size and shape of North America. Possibly South America, too. This is why I don’t get asked to parties.

      “Hey.” He nudges my chin up with his thumb. “No big deal.”

      He’s so beautiful.

      I blame my embarrassing muteness on his face. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and he’s within touching distance. When he removes his thumb from my face, I almost sigh in disappointment.

      And then he flashes a devilish wink at me and shrugs out of his vest. “Hold this for me, babe.”

      The leather vest he drops into my hands is warm from his skin. You know how there are moments when you can feel your whole life pivot? Because the universe has just served you a red letter day and you need to stop and memorialize that date in your journal? Maybe slap some washi tape and gold stars on that bad boy so that when you look back, fifty years from now, you’ll know to tell your grandkids about the day you met dear old granddad and how the trumpets blared and the angelic hosts all pointed at him and declared him to be The One?

      I wish I could tell you that’s what happens here. I wish I could say I looked at Vik and knew he was a good man and that together we’d have something meaningful.

      But I can’t.

      I am, however, 100 percent in lust with him.

      Just look at him.

      How could any woman resist?

      He hauls his T-shirt over his head in one smooth move and the man could do underwear ads. He’s got the most amazing six-pack, all cut muscles dusted with the finest of golden hairs. And the fact that I know this only proves that I’m standing way too close to him. I imagine this must be how Eve looked at Adam the day she realized he had a dick and he was naked. My gaze travels down in pure appreciation. And then goes down some more until all those pure feelings of admiration melt into something far dirtier and hotter. Dear God, the man has been blessed.

      “If you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask.”

      And just like that he short-circuits the remaining brain cells in my stupid, besotted head. Smacking myself upside my head sounds like a plan, except I need whatever thinking power remains up there. Logic is my new best friend. Calm. I probably should have taken one of those yoga classes where they teach you how to be all Zen and in the moment because right now I’m practically hyperventilating.

      Vik isn’t helping. He tugs his vest out of my hands (I don’t particularly want to give it back), shrugs it on and then tosses the dirty T-shirt onto the floor. “Come on.”

      I shove my tongue back into my mouth and let him lead where he will. Which is apparently from one group of bikers to the next. And surprisingly, everyone I meet is pretty chill. They tip their heads at me or wink or flash a killer grin, and...I’m having a good time. Plus, Vik turns out to be more of a cuddler than a humper or a groper (contrary to his dance floor exhibition). He keeps an arm around me, squeezing me up against his side as he steers us from group to group. Since he’s mostly naked from the waist up, I find this contact deeply distracting.