Inked. Anne Marsh

      Vik disappears while I settle up with his receptionist for my new ink. I shouldn’t be disappointed. Obviously, the flirty come-on lines are just part of the service—kind of like a hairdresser chatting you up while you’re in her chair and pretending she’s super-interested in your life. I force myself not to look around while Gia runs my credit card. After I sign the receipt, however, I discover a logistical problem.

      Brooklyn’s sound asleep on the couch.

      Since leaving her here would be a gross violation of the girlcode (we’re besties even if she didn’t talk me out of getting a tattoo), I need to get her home. And while I definitely outweigh her, I can’t deadlift her. While I consider and abandon constructing a travois out of her borrowed jacket and hauling her ass home, Gia disappears with a little wave. Guess it’s quitting time at the zoo.

      I could drag Brooklyn outside. The odds of that causing physical damage, however, seem high.

      While I’m weighing bruises against camping in a tattoo shop overnight, a bike roars up, the noise of the pipes bouncing off buildings. Vik seems even larger and wilder straddling the enormous bike, which I figure out fast because my eyes just keep checking out his thighs, those long, muscled legs that end in the sexiest pair of boots, the powerful forearms that effortlessly guide the bike to a stop. I can’t stop looking, which in retrospect probably should be a red flag that this man isn’t easy. That he’s capable of riding all over my nice, tidy, way-too-single life as easily as he does the road.

      I should have run out of Ink Me screaming.

      Instead, I watch him swing off the bike and stride toward me. Possibly, I entertain a few fantasies about pillaging Vikings and village maidens. The fun parts, not the shitty moments involving murder and mayhem. Of course, Mr. Beautiful has no clue about the daydreams playing out inside my head. He’s just being a Boy Scout and making sure I’m sorted before he leaves for the night and whatever fun, sexy stuff bad-boy bikers who look like Vikings do in their downtime.

      “Called you a taxi,” he says when he gets to me, reaching out to touch my arm lightly. The man is definitely snugglier than a cat. A really, really friendly alley cat, I remind myself. Even in high school, his dick had its own frequent flyer club.

      “Thanks,” I blurt out while he stares patiently at me.

      “You want me to follow you home and carry Sleeping Beauty inside?”

      “Do you follow all your clients home?”

      “Only the cute ones.” He winks.

      I think about that for a moment too long. Nope. I’ve got nothing. Flirty banter is not something I excel at—I have a goddamned finance degree from Cornell. Sexy Quips 101 was not part of my Ivy League curriculum. Instead, I reexamine Brooklyn, hoping she’s magically decided to wake up, sober up and get up.

      No such luck.

      She snort-sighs, settling deeper into the leather couch. Vik laughs.

      “She’s out for the night.”

      Thank you, Captain Obvious.

      He puts all those gorgeous muscles to good use, however, sliding his arms underneath her and scooping her up against his chest. They look perfect together, a beautiful blond god and goddess pairing. Her hair trails over his arm as he heads for the door. This is my cue to follow him, and since exhaustion is hitting me hard now, I do. If he’s got a solution for my Brooklyn problem, I’ll take it.

      When we get outside, the taxi is just pulling up. Vik juggles his load of sleeping blonde, and says something to the driver. The guy nods, money changes hands, and then Vik walks around the car, pops open the back door and slides Brooklyn inside. When I open my mouth to protest about his paying, he cuts me off.

      “Duane here is gonna see you back to your place. He can carry Sleeping Beauty in if she needs it.”

      I shouldn’t find his ruthless, roughshod side attractive. I blame the broad shoulders stretching the leather of his jacket, or maybe it’s the way he leans in to buckle up Brooklyn. He’s big but he makes me feel both safe and sexy. He’s just playing around, but it’s been a long time since any guy made me feel like the queen of sexy. Like I don’t have to try harder or do more because I’m enough right now, just as I am. I thought I’d have to wait until I met my Mr. Right to feel like that. Looking back, I guess that should’ve been my first clue that Mark wasn’t the guy for me.

      “Give me your address.” Vik flashes me a wicked smile and I’m grateful I don’t have to admit how wet my panties are.

      I shoot him a look. He grins. Waiting. I heat up some more. “Because the driver needs it?”

      Damn, the man has a sexy laugh. It’s low and rough, a dirty, happy-sounding chuckle. I smile back as he saunters back around the car.

      “Because I want it, sweetheart.”

      My girl parts decide this is the best reason ever. In fact, we should totally give Vik whatever he wants. Immediately.

      Stupid.

      “I’m at the Bellagio,” I admit. “I’m between places at the moment thanks to the Douche.”

      Vik opens the door on my side and hands me in. I’m no dating virgin, but this is the first time any guy has ever physically steered me into a car. I look up at him, intending to protest, and lose my breath. God, he’s gorgeous. Gorgeous and so, so close. I can see firsthand that his eyes are still a dark, hard gray...and those beautiful eyes make me forget all about his appropriation of my elbow—and my free will.

      My butt hits the seat oh-so-obediently, but he doesn’t let go. He cups my elbow with his palm, his fingers stroking briefly over my forearm. It’s hardly pornographic but it’s been a long time since anyone touched me. Or wanted to. I know Mark didn’t, because our California King–size bed had stricter borders than North and South Korea. Mark hadn’t crossed those lines to my side of the bed in months.

      Vik retreats, shuts the door and then leans down, his big, tattooed hands curling around the open window frame. “Got a proposition for you.”

      “Okay.” I’d like to pretend I don’t sound breathless, but this man is like fine wine. He’s only gotten better since high school.

      “We’re having a party out at the clubhouse tomorrow night. Think you’d have fun if you came out.”

      Is he asking me out on a date? Or maybe this is the biker version of a coffee? In theory we’re old high school friends who haven’t seen each other in years, so this could be strictly platonic, or him just being nice because he’s aware my life is a mess.

      “You’re thinking too hard.” He looks amused as he pulls a business card out of his jacket pocket and scribbles an address on it. He takes my hand, tucking the card into my palm and closing my fingers around it. His thumb strokes over my knuckles briefly. “Say yes. I promise I won’t forget you this time.”

      His eyes dip to my mouth. Is he thinking about kissing me? Am I thinking about kissing him?

      “Maybe,” I blurt out, my good intentions melting like my panties.

      I’m still trying to decide as he saunters back to his bike, straddles the seat and rides off. Usually, I’d just admire the view and get on with my life, but nothing about today has been normal. I’ve been rendered homeless, dumped and inked. And after an evening of downing way too many cocktails, I’ve also got a monster-size thirst to go with the start of a headache—and the contacts I’ve been wearing all day aren’t helping. Hooking up with a biker and tattoo artist is also something I wouldn’t usually do.

      But I’m painfully aware that the man’s ass and thighs are a delicious work of art that deserve appreciating. Biker. Charmer. Player. Vik is all of these and more, and the sex appeal just rolls off him. Maybe we could hook up, but it couldn’t end any better than it did the first time.

      Trouble.

      That’s what