Canvas (The Program Book 1) Page 2

  I’m grinning now. Clearly she hates the position she’s finding herself in. I, on the other hand, love it. She knows I love it, love her unknown vulnerability, her weakness.

  She handed it to me on a silver platter.

  Did she watch me? Just like I’ve watched her?

  “Oh?” slowly I raise an eyebrow at her.

  She lets out a frustrated huff, shoves her fists to her sides, and I can see her foot stomp behind the counter. It was slight, but she really did stomp that little foot of hers.

  Hah!

  “Next door. You’re the guy from the tattoo shop next door.”

  I’d bet a hundred dollars it’s killing her to keep her voice low to not attract the attention of the other customers.

  Feisty little thing. Perfect. This is going to be too much fun.

  “I suppose I should be flattered,” I tease her with a wink.

  “Don’t be,” she snaps as her eyes slowly take in the tattoo sleeves running up and down my arms when I rest my hands on the counter. Her eyes jerk back to mine when she realizes what she was doing. When our eyes clash, she knows I was watching her.

  The lust that was burning through me when I watched her earlier is roaring inside me once again. I know she sees it. Instantly, her expression turns to shock, then desire flashes in her eyes and her delicious little mouth opens. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

  Fuuuuuuck!

  “Like what you see?” I smirk, bringing my face a little closer to her.

  I know I’m being a total ass, it’s just too tempting.

  She goes pale, then bright red.

  That blush, it’s like a fucking shot of heroin.

  She leans back slightly, trying to put space between us. It doesn’t work, the energy between us is sparking loud and fierce eating up the distance and connecting us.

  “Nice ink,” she mutters, then clamps her mouth shut to stop herself from saying anything else.

  “There’s more, a lot more…” It’s an invitation.

  “I’m sure.” I can tell she’s fighting to keep her eyes on my face to stop them from roaming over me and envisioning the ink under my clothes. She pulls that luscious lip between her teeth again.

  I almost groan out loud.

  “How about some paint-by-numbers later?”

  What the fuck did I just say?! Even though it’s exactly what I want, only without the numbers.

  “What?!” Her jaw falls to the floor.

  That expression, fucking priceless!

  My voice drops to a husky burr and I inch closer, “Come over to the shop when you get off. You can fill in my blank spaces, I’ll connect your dots, first with some ink, nothing permanent, after with my tongue. Then we can make something new next time. I guarantee you’ve never painted like you’re going to with me.”

  What a fucking vision, I can’t resist.

  That is exactly what I want to do, strip her nice and slowly, then explore her body inch by delectable inch.

  She blinks. Once. Then twice.

  “Excuse me?” her eyes are bulging almost as much as her mouth is wide in shock.

  I lean in a little closer with my forearm resting on the counter, I’m a fairly tall guy, I’m so close she’s backed against the shelves behind her. I want to speak quietly so only she can hear me, and close enough to get a whiff of her scent. And it’s fucking incredible. She smells like wildflowers, clean, and untamed, but feminine with a hint of sweetness. It makes my mouth water.

  “Don’t worry, Summer, I’ll show you how. Every spot, every empty space, every inch of flesh, will be a canvas. It’ll be a masterpiece. I promise.”

  Her nostrils flare with the image of our naked bodies covered in our art, pounding against each other. My cock stirs with it. She pulls that pouty full fucking lip of hers between her teeth again. Another quickening pulse erupts through my veins.

  She likes the idea.

  “You’re insane,” her voice is a little breathy for her words to be believable.

  “Maybe,” I smirk. “But you like it. You want to.”

  “No I don’t,” she whispers, but she’s lying, it’s written all over her face, in the flush of desire in her cheeks, in the glaze in her eyes, with the catch of her breath. “I already told you don’t flatter yourself.”

  She closes her mouth and her eyes flinch as she battles to keep them fixed on mine, fighting to keep them from traveling over my body, her canvas. Hers, every fucking inch of me.

  I stand again and flash her a smirk. She knows I know she’s lying.

  “I’m just teasing you, Summer. What kind of a guy would I be if I told you I wanted to paint your naked body the first time we met? Would that be inappropriate? Vulgar? Taboo? Would that make me a dick too like pussy boy? Would that make me a bad man, Summer?”

  She sucks in a breath faster than she could stop herself from reacting.

  Gotcha, Tinkerbell.

  There’s that flash of vulnerability again, weighing everything I’ve just said. She doesn’t think I’m bad. No, she thinks I’m honest. She likes it. And it scares her.

  “No…yes….Oh, for Christ’s sake, just drop it.” She closes her eyes tightly in frustration.

  She didn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t want me to.

  When she opens them, I let mine skim over her face, down to her lips and imagine stroking them with my tongue, to the flesh peeking out of her neckline and her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts pushing the apron out, and then back up to her eyes.

  If she didn’t have that apron on, I bet I could see her nipples nice and hard through that flimsy little peasant blouse she’s wearing. My dick knows it too. Now I think she knows my dick knows because her eyes move down my body and straight to my crotch. My shaft’s straining against my pants, hard, tall, and proud.

  A soft little, “Oh,” slips past her lips. Her eyes jump right back up to mine, wide as saucers, and she’s beet red again, her face, neck, and chest covered in that delicious blush. “Um, what would you like?” Immediately her eyes slam shut as she retreats behind the safety of her job.

  “Coffees. Four. Black.”

  I didn’t think her eyes could get any wider. But they did when they flew back open. Just from the sound of my voice. It’s rough and I know it. And it tells her exactly what I want, her naked, letting me do whatever I want with her body. Without another word, she quickly turns, probably grateful for the excuse to escape me. I almost laugh. Then sweet little Summer is plopping a cardboard tray holding four take-out coffees in front of me on the counter.

  Looking anywhere but at my face, she politely asks with a nervous tremor, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “I said black,” there’s a hint of humor in my reply.

  She’s flustered, nervous, and I hope she’s wet. I want her wet all day thinking about me.

  “Um, yeah, that’s right. Five thirty, please.”

  I slide a twenty across the counter.

  “See you tomorrow, Summer.” My promise is quiet but I have no doubt it’s echoing inside her.

  She doesn’t say anything, just blinks.

  I pick up the tray and leave before she can give me the change.

  She’s definitely not our type. But it’s going to be fun playing in Summer’s heat.

  SUMMER

  CHAPTER 2

  Was that for real?

  Did that man just tell me he wants to paint and mark my naked body, that is after he covered every inch with his tongue? Is that what he just said?

  He scorched me, grabbed me by the hair, and held me prisoner. With only his eyes, his words, and the sound of his voice. And that fantasy. Was that a fantasy? He doesn’t really do that to women, does he? Does he really want to do that to me? And let me do it to him?

  That was the absolute hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life! And he wants to do it to me!

  No he doesn’t, he said he was teasing. Was he serious?

  What just happened? Did that just happen? What was that?
Who was that?

  Stupid girl, it was the guy you’ve been drooling over since you first found this place.

  Him. Everything him, all that, whatever that is. I stare at him as he leaves, the tall stranger in black, black midnight hair, black scruff, black ink, black jeans, black t-shirt, black motorcycle boots, big black leather wallet on a chain. And silver, the rings, and the two hoops, one hanging from each ear. His hands were big and strong, long fingers, perfect for finger painting…on skin…bare skin.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  That face, flippin’ perfect! Sinfully chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw to nibble on, and his voice, God, his voice is hypnotizing. Soooo much hotter in the flesh! His eyes…dark and hard, yet penetrating. And that mouth, those lips, what would those lips do, how would they feel, how would they taste?

  Did he check me out?! And that BULGE! Hugehugehuuuuuuuge!

  My mouth goes completely dry just thinking about it, and the obvious effect on me in my moist panties.

  I wonder what else he might have pierced.

  A fresh wave of heat shoots through me at the thought.

  SHITSHITSHIT.

  He said he’s coming back tomorrow, I wonder if he’ll be all dressed in black again, if his jeans will fit him just as perfectly, hug that ass like it is now (I can’t tear my eyes away), grip it like my hands want to…

  Stop it! You’ve got a business to run.

  The sobering thought brings me back to reality and clears my head. But only a little. I quickly scan the customers to see if anyone heard the conversations, starting with Steve, and especially the wonderfully wicked fantasy, it was a fantasy, pretend, wasn’t it? I wonder if my reaction to that man is glaringly obvious on my face. I feel like a kid who just got caught kissing in school, wanting to giggle and hide at the same time.

  My mind is a jumble of confusion, tumbling in a chaotic rolling boil of lust. I don’t know what to think first. Was he being vulgar with the things he said? Do I like how he stuck up for me when Steve was being a dick?

  Tattoo Man had Steve pegged, he is a total dick. But I handled him, I’ve been handling him since he first stepped foot in here. I don’t need saving.

  Steve’s always been a condescending ass. He’s handsome, appears to be successful, but there’s just something about him. Something that triggers familiar things, uncomfortable things, things I never want to think about.

  I bet Steve doesn’t want to draw all over a naked woman, cover every inch, every piece of bare flesh, use her like a canvas? That’s what Mr. TD&I, said (Mr. Tall, Dark, & Inked). That’s what he wants to do.

  With me.

  The image of the man in black smashing Steve in the mouth brings a smile to my face though. But I’ve been around those kind of men all my life, I know what a possessive man is like. That’s enough to shove an ice cube down my hot panties.

  No thanks. I can take care of myself.

  He asked if I thought he was bad? No, not bad. Honest, yes. Tough, yes. Dominating, absolutely. But dominating men don’t paint and draw on a naked woman, do they? They only keep her like a thing, expect her to be his slave, then beat her if they feel like it. If she deserves it.

  No thank you!

  A man who wants to make her his masterpiece wouldn’t beat her, use her, debase her.

  Would he?

  As I look for any indications that anyone might have heard us, I notice something.

  Every single woman is watching Mr. Tall, Dark, & Inked, Mr. TD&I. Not watching. Ogling, practically salivating. They’re like a single wave, all their heads move in synchronicity, like the synchronized swimmers in those old black and white movies, following him until he disappears from sight.

  Until Mrs. Merriweather breaks the spell.

  “Bloody ‘ell, Summer, ‘oo was that? Got me knickers in a twist, ‘e did. I’d show ‘im a thing or two, I would.”

  The entire room laughs, it’s a high pitched nervous squeal coming from all the females.

  Mrs. Merriweather, the proper English widow, has just verbalized what every breathing female is thinking in her very proper English accent. Quite colorfully, I’d say. She literally shocked the shit out of me.

  “Mrs. Merriweather,” I choke out as a fresh flash of embarrassment floods me. The man’s definitely got my knickers in a twist, too! “Why would you say that?”

  I come around the counter with a towel in my hand. I’m a nervous wreck after that confrontation.

  The nerve of him, coming in here and speaking to a woman he doesn’t know like that, filling her head with all sorts of images, making her feel all kinds of incredible things. Making her want things she’s never imagined before. How dare he?

  No, I don’t want that, definitely not.

  Could I?

  I need something to do, something to occupy my hands with, so I’m going to wipe tables and check on the condiment stand.

  I wonder if his skin is smooth?

  I rest my hand on the flat tabletop but see his chest, visualizing it in my mind.

  “Because, missy, I’m a woman, and ‘e’s a fine specimen of a man,” Mrs. Merriweather replies. “’e’s got you in a bit of a tizzy I see,” she chuckles loudly.

  “Don’t be silly,” I try to argue, scrubbing like a crazy person.

  I wasn’t just imagining running my hands down his chest.

  His naked chest.

  I definitely was not.

  “Silly am I? Then why would you be trying to rub a ‘ole in that table then?” she calls my bluff. “Thinking it be something else, would you? And the way ‘e put that little twat in his place,” holy shit, did she just call Steve a twat? “I ‘ad ‘alf a mind to pull ‘im out by ‘is ears me self.” With that, she crosses her arms across her chest and gives me an emphatically loud hrrrrrmph!

  I choke back a laugh at that wise old woman’s very accurate description of how she’d have handled the ‘little twat’. Old lady Merriweather just ripped Steve the twat a new asshole.

  “Steve’s a customer and the customer is always right.”

  I can’t look at her, I just can’t, I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face. As much as I’d like to tell her, Damn right, he’s a twat, probably a little peckered twat at that, I can’t talk about one of my customers that way. Even if he is a little twat. A little peckered twat.

  “Oh, bullocks, Summer!” the swear words flowing from this feisty firecracker makes me love her even more. “Being a customer doesn’t give someone the right to be disrespectful, and a total arse! That man was right, the little twat is an arse kisser.”

  I chuckle, it just pops out, I can’t stop it.

  “I was handling him.” I really do attempt to be stern and serious. Really, I swear. How am I supposed to keep my voice from squeaking?

  “Yes, dear, you were, but isn’t it brilliant when a big brawny man’s man does it for you? Oh, the things that man can do would be a sight I’m sure.” The woman is quite plainly infatuated with Mr. TD&I.

  “Women don’t need a man to take care of them, Mrs. Merriweather. Look at you for instance, you’re happy, and you don’t need anyone.”

  “It’s not needing them to, lass,” she winks at me, the cheek of the woman! “It’s the fact that they can. And I’d bet me britches ‘e’d be doin’ it quite well, ‘e would.” After a smirk and a dip of her chin, she adds, “And a right many other things, I’m sure.”

  “No doubt,” Gwendolyn, Mrs. Merriweather’s granddaughter chimes in as she fans herself.

  The girl’s as flushed as if she’s been in a sauna for an hour.

  “There you go, lass, settled,” gesturing to her granddaughter’s confirmation. Mrs. Merriweather sits back with a triumphant look on her wrinkly wise face.

  I smile to myself longingly.

  It would, if fairy tales were true. If Prince Charming knew when to be Superman, then knew how to stop. But they’re not, this is the real world and dominating men are just…dominating! No heart, no compassion, no emotion.

&nb
sp; “Did I hear him right, Summer?” Gwendolyn asks hopefully, lifting her head from her horn-dog daze. “Did he say he was coming back tomorrow?”

  The girl’s practically panting.

  Good Lord! I certainly hope I didn’t look like that. What if I reacted to him the same way, if he saw me panting for him like Gwendolyn’s doing? Did I pant? No, I couldn’t have, I have more control, don’t I?

  SHIT.

  “I’m not sure, Gwen,” I don’t want to seem interested in anything that man does. “He might have.”

  I will not admit I remember every single word Mr. TD&I, said, how he said it, and all those decadent images they elicited I will never forget. Nope, I will never admit I remember. Every. Single. One.

  “Oh, I hope so, I hope he comes back every day. I’ll be right here waiting for him.” She pauses. “Summer,” a soft smile tugs at Gwendolyn’s mouth, “if word gets around about that gorgeous man coming in here every day, think what it could do for your business? The women would be lined up, it’d be standing room only, like a Chippendale’s show. And if he brought friends, goodness, you’d be rich in no time.”

  I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the scenario.

  “Good Lord, Gwen, women are not that hard up to look at men,” I scoff.

  But wasn’t I just quivering over the idea of seeing him tomorrow? Talking to him tomorrow? Hearing anymore wicked things he might have to say tomorrow? Really, aren’t I hoping he comes back tomorrow?

  “Och, Summer, women enjoy…what is it they call it, Gwendolyn love?” Mrs. Merriweather turns to her granddaughter.

  “Eye candy, Gran, we love eye candy.”

  “Brilliant, love.” The older woman turns to me, (she’s definitely not old, nobody could be old as hot to trot as she is). “Women enjoy good eye candy just as much as men do. It don’t mean we be floozies, we merely appreciate it,” she finishes with a firm nod to her chin again.

  Oh brother! I have to admit she’s got me. I’d be a hypocrite if I disagreed with her.

  The women at the next table start nodding their heads in agreement, the book club that comes in once a week. All of them pristine images of perfectly pressed and precisely matching PTA members. The Wifezillas.