Inked. Anne Marsh

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 Vik is. He’s Capital T Trouble.

      He’s not the Mr. Right I’ve been searching for, he doesn’t fit into my life plan, and that makes him most definitely not the person I need in my life right now. If I were smart, I’d sit out on dating for a few months even if said life plan calls for marriage and kids before I’m thirty-five and my eggs start drying up like water in the desert. It’s just that I’d swear Vik looked at me like he liked what he saw. I mean, really, really liked what he saw. And he walked me out and gave me his card and God I need to find a life somewhere. I’ve already taken his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.

      I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.

      I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.

      Come over.

      Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...

      Doing something downright obscene.

      To a very large penis.

      That has...

      Ink?

      I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?

      He has to be exaggerating.

      I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.

      Really.

      I will.

      Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.