One More Breath Page 2

  After freshening up a rib piece on a man who spent his entire time whining like a baby – really, dude. Grow a pair and then come see me – I grab Wyatt, tell Cora to lock the place up, and practically pull him around the corner to the bar. It is a local dive bar whose clientele is a blend of bikers, biker bitches, and muffler bunnies, as well as those few who do all the work and get none of the respect. The bar also has its traditional drunks and cougars on the prowl.

  Truth be told, I just came to drink, avoiding the women like the herpes they all probably carry. Whoever said men are the more aggressive sexual animal has not met single women between the ages of 40-50. Lord, spare me the horny cougars! They just don’t take “no” for an answer. And, let me tell you, gravity is a fact of life, ladies. Expect it. Breasts that look as if they were just ordered out of the “Bolt-On” car magazine are a major turn off. Breasts should be soft and make you want to melt your face into them, not cringe away in pain.

  The same thing goes for faces. You do know they are meant to make expressions, right? If you are incapable of smiling, walk away. Men are visual. If we cannot see your face expressing an orgasm because Botox has it set in place, sex is off the table. Period. There is no faster way to deflate a perfectly good hard-on than still looking like you can be attending a PTA meeting while you’re screaming.

  So, while cougars are super easy and sure thing if you want a lay, I tend to stay away from them. I like softness. I like to be able to grab my girl’s ass and have it fill the palms of my hands. I like to watch her boobs bounce while we have sex. Like I said – visual.

  This is normally reason enough to stay away from the “Cock”. The bolt-on, Botox broads here just don’t do it for me. However, the image of a small blonde with angel blue eyes haunting my head tonight, I may actually consider the one that currently has her breasts pressed against my arm. She will never need a bra because those babies aren’t moving. I order a Hennessey and turn to the woman next to me. Her overly made-up face nearly repulses me. Reaching out, she begins tracing her fingers up and down the tattoos on my arm. “These are amazing tattoos. Do they mean anything?” she asks.

  And that right there, that one question, ends any and all further communication we could have had. You can ask many tattoo wearers what their tattoos mean, but to act as if we just randomly choose to put a permanent piece of pain for the world to see on our bodies for no real reason is beyond stupid. We all have that silly tattoo, but those are typically not the ones we are, literally, wearing on our sleeve. Our pain, our lives is out there for everyone to see through the tattoos. If we want you to know more, we will tell you. To assume I just randomly tattooed myself is just… Well, it disgusts me.

  I look at her and can actually see her contemplating licking them. Women seem to love to lick tattoos. Obviously, this whore has no clue. People don’t just generally go out and decide to get one on a random day. Sure that happens…the drunken nights, the dares or fads…but they are generally planned out. I look at her with thinly-veiled disgust and search over her head for Wyatt. The jerk has left and didn’t even tell me. Hopefully she is better than Botox Barbie here.

  I decide to answer. “Nearly all tattoos have meanings. Deep meanings. Tattoo wearers generally wear their pain on their sleeve for all to see. We are an open book.” I slam my drink back. She continues to stare, unfazed by my distinct lack of interest. Blue eyes haunt me.

  I grab Botox by the arm and lead her outside. She follows easily, giggling the entire way, stumbling in her five-inch heels. I don’t really care. She is a gash, a cure for the nymph who is currently haunting my every thought. As I drag Botox out the back door and into the alley, her hand has roughly found its way to my dick and is attempting to make it like her.

  Rubbing it through my jeans, she moans, “You’re so huge.”

  Yeah, whatever. What is it about women that make them say that? It’s like a script. I know I am large, but is now really the time to remind me you’ve done this enough times that you can virtually measure me up to the others?

  I reach down to her skirt and pull it up over her hips. She smells nothing like my blue-eyed angel. I rip her panties to the side and she moans even louder. “Take me hard!” she yells.

  Why the fuck do I feel like I wandered into a bad romance movie? Hell, like she has to ask. I am planning on it anyway. I need to pound the angel out of my head. Swiping my fingers through her wetness to test her readiness, I circle her clit for a moment while she writhes and moans uncontrollably.

  As I push my pants to my thighs and reach in the pocket to grab a condom, I feel her hand grab my cock. “Oh, god! You’re pierced! I’ve never had a guy who was pierced.”

  I will give her that one. Not many woman have or will experience sex with piercings. Men tend to be wimps when it comes to their junk. Heck, yeah, I’m pierced. Those piercings were the best idea I have ever had. That APA hurt like hell, but it was so worth it. I went back for more and now have the complete ladder. Women love it and it makes my job so much easier. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?” I know it doesn’t, but I still always ask.

  She just drops to her knees in the dark alley and gets to work, taking me in her mouth. I close my eyes and all I can see is Leire. What the fuck? I am so beyond messed up. I hardly know her. As I let this cougar go to work on me, all I can imagine is Leire’s mouth on me. Shit.

  I grab the girl’s head in my hands and begin to fuck her mouth in earnest. I pull her up and sheath my dick in the condom to fuck her, and she looks directly at me. Fuck. It’s not the right face. What the fuck? Thirty minutes with a girl in a nonsexual manner, and now I have apparent whiskey dick? I have a wet, willing gash to bury into, but I have to focus and force it to happen. The woman notices my semi-lack of interest and attempts a pout. At least, I think it would be an angry pout if her facial muscles would allow it. I sigh and push forward, pounding into her as hard as I can, forcing myself to focus on the present and the feeling gripping my balls and traveling up my spine. Finally. The girl is grinding her hips backwards so I figure she is close. I reach around to her clit to help her finish off. When she screams and I can feel her muscles pulsing around me, I lose it into the condom and immediately pull out.

  She looks over her shoulder and grins. “I do like that piercing. Anytime you are up for it, you come find me, okay?”

  She pulls her skirt down and readjusts her panties, finally deciding they will be better in her purse. Kissing my cheek, she heads back inside. I tuck myself into my jeans and text Wyatt that I am headed home. I realize then that I never learned her name. I just had truly random sex, without even exchanging names, to get Leire out of my head. What a mind fuck.

  I shake my head to clear it, and am walking to my truck when my phone beeps. The image of Wyatt’s dick with a mouth and four sets of hands all over him takes over my screen.

  Night, fucker! See you in the morning…maybe.

  Again, fuck my life. Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I head home to work on drawing the best damn tattoo I have ever attempted.

  LEIRE

  When Saturday finally arrives, I am both nervous and excited. I have spent the last two days constantly thinking not only about that tattoo, but also about Ander. The way his shirt melded over his finally sculpted torso, his jeans hugging his perfect ass. The tattoos on display from his neck to his fingers make me want to trace and explore the meaning of each one. He is so self-contained. I know each tattoo has a specific meaning for him to have decided it was worthy of his pristine body. Man, I’m in trouble. I can only imagine the bulge at the front of his pants and what he can do with it. I know he has to be somewhat older than me, and being a successful, amazingly hot tattoo artist, I am under no impression that he doesn’t know what he is doing with his…sexual abilities.

  I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, making sure every inch of me has been waxed, deciding what to wear, all the while thinking of him. My hand creeps beneath the silk of my thong and I dip my fingers in myself to
gather some of the present moisture, beginning to circle my clit. I can just see his sexy V leading to his cock, the faint line of hair teasing me with what is below. My fingers speed up and my face heats. I dip two fingers inside and shatter, embarrassed that this man I didn’t even know had just caused me to come so quickly. I mean, I had only talked to him for thirty minutes. What is this? After all I had been through, I never considered myself a sexual being. All of this is so new.

  I finish getting ready, noticing I am still wearing a slight blush, and head to the shop. Maybe, in this new life, I can take a chance. Maybe I can make an actual connection with a man without the fear of having them consume me. I am so tired of being alone.

  When I walk into the shop, Ander is waiting with a huge grin and an even bigger piece of paper.

  “Are you ready for some shock and awe?” He is as happy as a child, a sly look in his eyes.

  “That sure of yourself, are you?” I respond. He laughs. He actually doubles over and belly laughs. It is the most beautiful sound the world has ever been blessed to hear. “You know, your job wasn’t so hard, considering I did all the hard work and all you had to do was refine.”

  “Refine?” he asks, raising his brow. What is this? Am I flirting? Do I know how to flirt? I am doing well at it if that’s what this is. “Wanna see?” Again, childlike happiness as he produces the paper. “All the work, huh?” He flips the light on at the table and time stops. Nothing exists except the drawing and me. It is perfect.

  All of a sudden, I feel a fingertip brush my cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “They’re good tears,” I breathe out, as I feel his finger gently trace the lines the tears are making down my face. They are tears of release and moving on. I didn’t even realize I was crying until his gentle touch alerted me to it.

  He stares at me, as if looking for the answer to something he doesn’t yet know the answer to. “I want to stop your tears,” he whispers, eyes wide as if shocked the words just came out of his mouth. “Will you tell me about the tattoo as we work on it?”

  I look at him, at his perfection. “We’ll see,” I answer. “Will you tell me yours?”

  He cringes. “We’ll see,” he mimics me. Then he smiles. “Are you ready?” There is a wicked gleam in his eyes. I am beginning to think tattoo artists may be sadists at heart, sticking needles into people who pay them. The Marquis De Sade had nothing on these folks.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and, um…get undressed so we can place the stencil. Because of the extensity, I’ll need you completely naked. We’ll work on getting all the lines done today.”

  When I look up, he is actually blushing. I made this beautiful creature blush. The power from that one moment gives me the courage I need to get undressed. Maybe things aren’t as uneven as they seem in my head. Then again, he hasn’t seen. He doesn’t know enough yet that he would be grossed out by my body, and it seems a shame to let this façade end so fast. Telling him about the tattoo would end it all. I am sure of it.

  I undress and stand for him, while he seems to struggle with the paper stencil for a moment. After a while, he begins to place and move it around until he has it just where he wants it. After placing what feels like jelly on my skin, he places the sketch and rubs gently, the frown line between his eyes deepening.

  I can’t resist this time, reaching out to smooth the crease. He looks up. There is a new gentleness there. He continues to place the tattoo and slowly peels the paper away, leaving behind a faint outline. With his gloved hands, he takes a pen and begins to trace and draw some of the lines more clearly.

  There’s no hiding my faults now, yet he doesn’t seem to even flinch when he comes across them. Goose bumps form on my skin from the feel of his hands on me. “It’s cold,” I smirk, and he grins. He has to have seen the scars by now, there is no way around it, yet he still hasn’t acknowledged them.

  When he seems happy with the stencil, he turns me to face a full-length mirror. The tears start again. Even with it just being lines so far, I feel the newness of my body. He has to have seen the scars from all the biopsies and transplants, the ports and tubes, but he’s still said nothing. If anything, it is the opposite. He is almost reverent. If it wasn’t for the fact that I caught him slyly trying to adjust himself behind me when he thought I wasn’t looking, I would have thought him asexual. Aha! my mind screamed. This is a two-way street and I have just decided to have some fun. It just so happens that its name is Ander.

  As we are standing there looking in the mirror, me naked and him clothed, his large tattooed body making mine feel even smaller than usual, another man comes barging in. “What the fuck, Wyatt?!” Ander yells as he jumps to stand in front of me. I quickly place my hands in front of me and blush.

  Wyatt, who apparently has no shame, continues on as if there isn’t a naked woman in the room at all. He grabs a chair and sits down. “Nice stencil,” he remarks with a smirk. “Hot body, too. I’d do it for you for free, beautiful. I’m better than he is…in all ways.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

  I can see the humor there, though if I stop and look deeper, I can see pain so deep and hidden that maybe he doesn’t know it is there. I understand pain so I decide, despite the circumstances, that I really like this man. He is genuine and funny. “Oh, really?” I reply. “I might just take you up on that.”

  Ander blanches. “Out, Wyatt,” he growls.

  Wyatt takes offense to this, seeming to never have been kicked out of Ander’s space before. “You owe me. I offered you two girls and more last night, and you turned them down. Two, Ander!” Was this the real Ander? One who slept with two girls (and more, whatever that was) at the same time?

  “Wyatt, you know I turned you down to work on this project because it’s that important to me. You also know I won’t go anywhere near where your dick has been, and that thing has been everywhere. Dude, you need to give it some time off before it up and falls off. Unlike you, I need to keep my job to make money,” he replies. “Besides, I have the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of having my hands on right here.”

  I freeze. I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that. Apparently, neither does Wyatt. He raises a brow, stands up, and shrugs. “Your loss last night.” When he turns to leave, he looks over his shoulder. “But, then again, maybe not!” Then he walks out of the room.

  ANDER

  I don’t know how the hell I am going to complete this tattoo. My dick is so hard, I am in actual pain. I am going to have to work in my boxers if I don’t want it to fall off from restriction.

  A naked Leire is perfection. I am so very tempted to trace my fingers from her breasts to her hips, leaning in to breathe her scent. What the hell is wrong with me? She has scars covering her body. I know they are the reason behind the tattoo, but when I truly look at her, all I can see is creamy perfection. Her blush extends from her face to the tops of her breasts. She is as aware of me as I am of her. I find myself thanking all that is holy that I am the lucky bastard who gets to put his hands on her, even if it’s just to tattoo.

  I don’t know what came over me when Wyatt walked into the room, but it was like I couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone else seeing her the way I did. The way Wyatt had smirked at me on the way out told me he knew something was up but would leave it be…for now. However, I know I am in for it later. Having basically been best friends since we crawled out of the crib, we know just about everything about each other. Hell, we both used to jack off to Jackie Monroe back in middle school and had caught each other going at it.

  Wyatt is one of those people who has a mask. To people who walk in, he is a happy-go-lucky, male slut type. Talking about banging two girls at once is his mask. The mask that, even though I know it’s there and I know him better than anyone, I am still trying to figure out. I cannot figure out what I am missing that makes him feel like he needs the mask with me of a
ll people. But if he wants to share, he will. I hope he trusts me enough someday to let me fully see behind his mask. Until then, I will joke and tease and let him have this persona, even if it means Leire is looking at me like I have a third head. I know she is wondering how many women he and I have shared.

  Wyatt has always been my boy. He’s the only other person in the world who knows my tattoos, my demons, my past. I can admit it hurts a little that he knows all of me, but I am missing something in him. Yes, we shared women in the past, have seen everything about each other, but something is missing. This man who just walked in… This is his mask. He is acting, yet I’m still protective over a woman I don’t know anything about. Taking all this into consideration, my behavior with Leire is beyond strange and I know I will be facing an inquisition later. God knows what I am going to say because I don’t even understand it myself.

  I motion for Leire to lie on the table, figuring I’ll start with the phoenix and finish with the wording, wrapping it around her like the hug she desires. I wish I can be that hug, that I can be the one to comfort her. I wonder if that is how this feels for her…comforting. She reclines, modestly using a small sheet to cover her mound, which is perfectly waxed, pink and, even covered, I can tell is wet. She has just that little strip of hair there. I hate the naked look. It makes me feel…wrong. Goddamn, this is going to be hard in more ways than one if I can’t get my body under control. When I adjust myself this time, I am blatant. If she is turned on, she deserves to know I am, as well. From the look on her face, she likes that I am playing along.