Tempt Me With Forever (A NOLA Heart Novel Book 4) Page 2

  Gage pointed his fork at his twin. “As owner of this joint, you should convince them to go for something original. Hell, I don’t know, suggest they go crazy and go for a skull or something.”

  Behind Owen’s trim beard, his mouth hitched upward. “Yeah, because that’d go over well. Sorority girl with a skull on her ankle? I can just see the stampede of horrified mothers busting down the door.”

  Yeah, so maybe not a skull then.

  Owen had been smart to buy the space here at Toulouse and Bourbon, but in doing so, he’d set himself up for a lifetime of butterflies for the women and Celtic armbands for the men. Sometimes things got wild and there was the chance to do a pretty awesome bit of artwork, but more often times than not . . . butterflies, all day every day.

  It was enough to make a thirty-four-year-old man—in other words, Gage—cringe indefinitely.

  Especially since Gage worked at Inked as a favor to Owen; it wouldn’t ever be his main gig. Which meant that while Owen frequently tattooed celebrities and famous N’Orleanians, Gage got the leftovers.

  He pushed his lunch away with a sigh.

  Time to suit up and shut up. Faster he got this over with, the faster he’d be heading Uptown to do real work.

  “Where she want it?” he asked, scrubbing his hands in the sink. Owen’s office was large and dominated by black furniture. Leather couch, leather chair, mahogany desk. He’d outfitted the room with a sink for easy access, along with a mini fridge and a microwave. Photographs of some of his best work decorated the walls, and it hadn’t escaped Gage’s notice that his twin had added a few photos of Gage’s work, too.

  When Owen didn’t answer immediately, Gage slid his eyes over to his brother. “Ankle?” he prompted.

  Owen glanced up at the ceiling.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Gage pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another ass-tattoo?”

  “She’s cute,” was all Owen said, which Gage took as confirmation that, yep, he’d have his hands all over some sorority girl’s butt for the next twenty minutes—forty, if she wanted shading done.

  It wasn’t the placement of the tattoo that bothered him.

  Nope. It was the fact that once he had his hands on her skin, the chick usually took that as invitation to hit on him. Blatantly. Without hesitation.

  Gage had enough on his plate already; he didn’t need to add a girlfriend to the mix.

  “You owe me,” he muttered, shoving past his brother and opening the door. Since their receptionist was on maternity leave, it fell to Owen and Gage to handle front of the house. Last time they’d let the other tattoo artist, Jordan, man the phones, he’d ended up screwing a client in the closet. The sounds of masculine grunting had horrified the mother and daughter duo sitting on the couch, plastic Mardi Gras beads encircling their necks.

  Jordan had effectively been suspended and warned to keep his dick in his pants.

  The mother and daughter had gripped their beads, cheeks blooming red, and ran from Inked as fast as their flip-flops could take them.

  Another sign of a tourist—no self-respecting N’Orleanian would ever wear sandals on Bourbon. Not if they didn’t want to catch an STD or end up dead from a fatal disease.

  Gage headed straight for the vintage marble-topped bar, which functioned as their receptionist’s desk, only to see a woman facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Bourbon.

  He cataloged the back of her in a heartbeat.

  Perfectly tousled brown hair.

  Off-the-shoulder white blouse.

  Form-fitting black skirt.

  Slim calves, trim ankles, and a pair of fuck-me black heels that could do double-duty as a weapon if she was so inclined.

  “You here for the butterfly?”

  At the sound of his gruff question, she turned around, and Gage felt his gut clench with unexpected lust. Owen hadn’t had the right of it; this woman wasn’t cute, she was gorgeous. The sort of breathtaking that had you questioning your sanity. The sort of breathtaking that made you wonder what the hell you could say to get her into your bed, her slim legs wrapped around your waist, and her breath hot and fast against your neck.

  Damn.

  Blue eyes lit with nervous anticipation as she rubbed her hands together. The motion jostled her bracelets. And, if her shirt weren’t so loose, he’d have had the opportunity to see if all that rubbing and jiggling affected her breasts too.

  “I am,” she said with a bright smile—straight white teeth, lips painted the color of a ripe plum. He wanted to see the color mussed, kissed into nonexistence, and discover the true shade of her lips.

  Get a grip, man.

  Right. Right.

  He ran a hand through his dark hair. This is what he got for spending the last few months with only his right hand. Between work with S.O.D., and then spending every free moment helping Owen here at the parlor, Gage hadn’t had a night to himself in what felt like forever.

  Or a day, either.

  He lived two lives, and neither of them left room for casual sex, which was the only sort of sex he engaged in.

  Swallowing his lust, Gage motioned for her to step up to the vintage bar. “Let’s get your paperwork settled.” He pulled one of the already prepared clipboards from the pile, and then slid it over to the woman, a pen on the side. “This your first tattoo?”

  She slipped her purse from her shoulder, dropping her head to sift through the contents. “It is,” she said, placing a gold wallet on the bar. “I’m turning over a new leaf. Doing something new with my life, and I figured that a butterfly is—”

  “Metaphorical?”

  Her stunning blue eyes leapt to his face. “Yes!” she exclaimed, either ignoring his dry tone or oblivious to it. “That’s it exactly. I mean, I know I could have gone with something a little more original, but—” She crooked her finger at him, and he fell for it, leaning in close as she mock-whispered, “I’m deathly afraid of needles. Silly, isn’t it?”

  The cop side of his brain wanted to say that her aversion to needles was a good thing. In the fourteen years that he’d been on the force, he’d witnessed way too many drug overdoses to count.

  But this woman . . . Gage inched his gaze down to those plum-colored lips of hers. Yeah, women like her weren’t in that world; they didn’t exist in the underbelly of his beloved hometown. And so he only smirked and said, “You’ve still got time to rethink this. Once we start, trust me when I say you’ll only look ridiculous if we stop midway through.”

  She cocked her head to the side, surveying him with a single look. “Good thing I’m getting it done on my butt, then, right? No one will know if I cry mercy. No one but me and . . . you.”

  Gage laughed, loudly. “Want me to offer you a strip of leather to bite down on?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Does that cost extra?”

  “I’ll make it free just for you.” He tapped his hip, drawing her gaze down to his worn Levi’s. “Leather belt meet to your satisfaction, princess?”

  Her reaction surprised him.

  Instead of blushing like any of the other women who waltzed into Inked, this one planted her hands on the marble, bit her bottom lip, and saucily whispered, “Where do I sign up?”

  Heat raced up his spine, and a strangled laugh stuck in his throat.

  Damn, but he liked her. Liked her spunk and the teasing glint that appeared in the form of twin dimples in her cheeks. Gorgeous and witty—if Gage had a type, and usually he didn’t, this woman would be it.

  He wondered how long she was in town for. She had West Coast written all over her, though her accent didn’t have a hint of California sunshine. “Let me grab your license,” he said, for once thankful that records were a necessity.

  Her long lashes fluttered down as she fished around in her wallet, pulling out both her I.D. and a black Amex credit card. Gage checked back a low whistle. Either this woman was a high-roller or she was related to someone with a lot of money.

  Subtly he checked out her ring finger.
Empty.

  Good news.

  “Here you go.” She gave him another bright smile and slid the I.D. across the marble with the tip of her manicured finger. “Do you by any chance have a restroom I can use?” She lifted her purse and gave it a little shake. “I brought a pair of shorts to change into, considering the placement of the tattoo.”

  She winked playfully.

  Gage’s cock hardened.

  Jesus, five minutes in her company and he was panting after her like a teenager.

  “Yeah.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway off to the right. “First door on your left. Can’t miss it—there’s a mural of a Roman bath on it.”

  “Great!”

  Her heels tip-tapped against the floor, and just before she would have left his sight, she twisted around, hand on the wall, one foot rubbing the back of the other enticingly. “You can leave the belt on the bar for me,” she said, a slow smile tugging at her lush lips, and then she disappeared.

  Gage squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head.

  Either he was that desperate for the touch of a woman or his next client was about to make him come in his pants.

  Not once in eight years since Owen had opened Inked on Bourbon had Gage ever wanted to take a patron home. He lived by certain codes of morality, and fucking someone who had just paid him, however indirectly, was on his list of things not to do.

  Not today.

  Today, he was going to find a way to get that woman’s number and take her out for dinner. After that, he planned to feast on her body. Every single inch of her.

  The sound of shouting caught his attention, and he opened his eyes. A second line paraded down the street, plastic go-cups in hand, Mardi Gras beads strung around their necks, and a marching band trailing behind the partiers. A motorcycle cop pulled up the rear, helmet on and leather jacket zipped up to the neck despite the warm September weather.

  Gage caught the man’s finger-salute and returned it with a brief wave—most of the NOPD knew he worked at Inked when he wasn’t on a tour of duty, and they often came in to get tatted themselves.

  He glanced down, eager to discover the woman’s identity.

  Surprise hit him when he saw “Louisiana” stamped across the top. Her photo was demure—no plum lipstick, that’s for sure. He saved her name for last. Height: five-five. Weight: one-thirty-five. Eyes: blue. Hair: brown.

  He skimmed up, and stopped dead.

  Elizabeth Danvers.

  Lizzie Danvers.

  Oh, fuck no.

  Chapter Three

  Lizzie slipped a pair of basketball shorts over her hips in the bathroom of Inked on Bourbon.

  “You can do this,” she told her reflection in the large mirror above the sink. “All you have to do is ask.”

  And run the risk of rejection.

  No biggie.

  She hadn’t expected to find her perfect bad boy when she’d walked into the tattoo parlor today. She also meant what she’d told Mr. Hottie up at the front—she was turning a new leaf. Getting a new start on life.

  It’d been two weeks since Scott had dumped her, and therefore one week and six days since she’d uploaded the video to her YouTube channel, and set the beauty industry on fire with her challenge.

  She’d received no less than four hundred emails since. Some praised her for taking a stand, some told her to sit back down and get her head out of her own butt (albeit with more colorful language), and some pushed and prodded to uncover if she’d corralled the city’s best charmer into dating her yet.

  Planting her hands on her hips, she gave herself a dark glare in the mirror. “This wasn’t your brightest idea,” she muttered. “Now you have to dig yourself out.”

  Thirty days dating the city’s biggest heartbreaker.

  This was why drinking to excess was a bad, bad thing.

  Because the next thing you knew, you’d announced to six million people around the world that you were going to prove to young girls everywhere to never trust a bad boy.

  A week ago, her challenge had started trending with the hashtag, #badboyirredemption, which wasn’t even grammatically correct. A person could only be redeemed, not the other way around, but that was the twenty-first century for you. No one cared about the particulars, and now thousands of people were coming forward to announce taking up Lizzie’s challenge right along with her.

  Lizzie had drunk more wine in the last two weeks than she had in her entire life.

  But now . . . now things were looking up.

  In deciding to get her first tattoo, she’d also met the hottest guy she’d ever seen. No wedding band, thankfully, and his smile was all long, hard sex.

  He was . . . perfect.

  Lizzie slipped her skirt over her purse, and then hooked the arm strap over her wrist.

  Time to do this.

  Oh God, I think I’m going to throw up.

  Pressing a hand to her belly to ease the nerves, Lizzie threw back her shoulders. Flirty Lizzie Danvers. Bubbly Lizzie Danvers.

  Right now, she could be nothing less if she wanted to keep Mr. Hottie from running in the opposite direction.

  Although she did feel a little ridiculous wearing high heels and a pair of her older brother’s shorts with “NOPD” emblazoned down the length of her left leg. No matter. Lizzie swayed her hips and smiled wide, with a lot of teeth, back to the front of the parlor.

  At the sight of him, she sucked in her breath all over again.

  Gorgeous.

  Ruggedly gorgeous, but gorgeous all the same.

  Dark, messy hair that begged for a woman’s fingers; black eyes as deep as the night sky over the Mississippi River. His skin was tan, a beautiful olive that looked perpetually sun-kissed. And his mouth . . . it was the stuff of fantasies, full and perfectly formed. If he’d been a woman, or a man so inclined to wear a little lip product, that mouth of his would be plastered on every billboard in the country showcasing the season’s hottest glosses.

  But he wasn’t that sort of man; she knew that from a single glance.

  He was all hard muscle, dressed in worn jeans, heavy boots, and a white T-shirt that molded perfectly to his ripped torso as he typed at the computer. Ink coated his arms, stopping at his wrists. Thick wrists. Long, tapered fingers. Big hands.

  She wondered how those hands would feel on her body.

  He twisted around at the sound of her heels hitting tile, and she might as well have felt the cool blast radiating from him like a physical force field. Where his eyes had been hot just minutes ago, they were chilly now. And his mouth was a straight line of ambivalence, as though he hadn’t just offered her the use of his leather belt.

  “All set?” he asked, voice gruff and deep. She’d caught the slightest hint of a twang before, as though maybe he hadn’t always grown up in New Orleans. “I’ve already traced out the image you emailed us, down to your size specifications, along with the color scheme you picked out.”

  Pink.

  Purple.

  Turquoise.

  “I like bright colors,” she said, refusing to feel embarrassed. It was her tattoo and her derriere—and even if she didn’t see the damn thing all the time, she wanted to know that the butterfly was an accurate representation of what she wanted.

  “Never would have guessed.”

  Lizzie’s shoulders inched up at his dry tone. “Is it going to take a long time?”

  In other words, how long do I have to get you to agree to date me for thirty days?

  Gesturing for her to follow him, he led the way to the back of the parlor, where three low-seated tables were positioned. Tattoo equipment sat beside each table, and Lizzie couldn’t even begin to describe what they were.

  He patted the far table. “Depends on how many breaks you need. Could be as short as twenty minutes, could be over an hour.”

  An hour of being punctured over and over again.

  Why had she thought this a great idea?

  “Have you . . .” She swallowed her nerves and steppe
d up to the table, pressing her knuckles into the cushioned leather after she set her purse on a spare chair. “Have you done the butterfly thing before?”

  He chuckled darkly. “You have no idea. All right, let’s do this.” Dark eyes zeroed in on her face. “Or are you gonna back out?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Except now she sort of wanted to. She hadn’t been lying about her fear of needles.

  “Great. Get on the table, Miz Danvers. Stomach-down, please.”

  She shivered at the sound of her name off his tongue, then lifted one knee and then the other onto the table. On all fours, she glanced over at him; her gaze was level with his flat stomach, and she tipped her chin back to meet his gaze. “You might want to get that leather belt ready. I’m a girl who likes to go all-in, but . . . needles, you know.”

  For a moment, he neither moved nor seemed to breathe. Body as still as finely cut marble, he clenched his jaw and averted his eyes. Had she pushed him too far? Crap, crap, crap.

  There was a fine line between flirty and bold; the first was like nectar to bees, the second like a light-zapper to mosquitoes. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d zap this opportunity into nothingness.

  Lizzie turned away and lowered herself to the table. Her shirt shifted upward, creasing across her lower spine, exposing her skin to the cool air from the ceiling fan whirring above them. With her cheek pressed to the table, she inhaled the smell of leather and edged her hand over the waistband of her shorts to tug them down. “Right side, please.”

  He made a strangled sound in his throat before she heard the stool creak with his weight. The soft fabric of terrycloth covered her left butt cheek. “Why here?”

  “Because then it’s only for me and my significant other.”

  Not that she had one of those. She’d have to get over her bad track record of dating losers for that to happen, but still, she had hope. She’d have even more hope once this dating challenge ended and the whole world wasn’t watching her every move, demanding updates on #badboyirredemption.

  There was the snap of latex gloves and then the smell of anti-bacterial wipes as he swiped the wet paper over her skin. Goose bumps pebbled on her arms. Whether from the wipe or the promise of his big hands, she didn’t know.