She's Got It Bad Page 5

  She was panting, her eyes closed, her hands clutching his backside as she dragged him closer. He rubbed himself against her as he slid a hand down her belly. His fingers found her through the thin lace of her thong, gliding into damp heat. He pushed the lace to one side and felt the smooth slide of his fingers on slick, hairless skin.

  Zoe waxed.

  Of course she did.

  She felt swollen and juicy against his fingers, so slippery and hot he couldn’t wait another second. She was ahead of him, her hands dragging at the stud on his jeans, pulling his fly down.

  He groaned low in the back of his throat as she stroked a knowing hand up and down his shaft.

  He pressed forward, wanting inside her. His whole body tensed as the sensitive head of his erection encountered her slick heat.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice a low husk.

  He heard the crinkle of foil, then she was sliding protection onto him with expert hands. No sooner had she smoothed the latex to the base of his shaft than he was thrusting forward. Tight heat engulfed him. She let out a surprised moan as he gave her his all. Then he lost all sense of place and time as he pounded into her.

  Her legs came up to lock around his waist. Her head dropped back on her neck. Her body shuddered with the impact of each stroke and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a cry. He leaned forward and pulled a nipple into his mouth, stroking her with his tongue even as he stroked her with his cock. He bit her, savoring the jerk of her hips and the tight throb of her inner muscles around him.

  Again and again he drove into her until he had to slide his hands onto her butt so he could go deeper, harder. Her back arched and her fingernails dug into his backside. Her mouth fell open as she shuddered around him, a look of pleasurable pain contorting her face as she came and came.

  Then his own orgasm hit him like a fist, driving the air from his lungs as he ground himself into her. For long seconds he shuddered out his release, every muscle hard as steel.

  Then he was still inside her but the urgency was gone. He could feel her breath against his neck, her hands gripping his butt. A trickle of sweat ran down his side. He registered the distant, muffled sound of music from the club.

  His heart was thundering in his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control.

  Because he’d just lost it, big-time.

  Zoe’s body began to tremble against his and he drew back so he could look into her face. She was laughing silently, shaking her head from side to side.

  “I guess I should thank you,” she said. “You said I would, one day. It might just have been worth waiting twelve years, after all.”

  He slid free from her and turned away to take care of the condom, wrapping it and throwing it in the waste bin. The small piece of business gave him an excuse not to look at her. There was something so desolate in her eyes, so empty and sad that it made him want to punch something.

  He slid his zipper closed and buttoned his jeans. Zoe pulled her bra back up, then started to unclip her stockings from her red garters.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said.

  “Neither did I, believe it or not. But it turned out to be a pretty good idea, don’t you think?”

  She rolled her stockings down her legs and toed off her stilettos.

  He looked away when she slid her thong down, forcing his gaze from the narrow strip of hair between her thighs. She was bare between them, he knew now. Smooth and so damned hot she’d blown his mind.

  She stepped into a clean pair of panties then reached for her jeans.

  “Can we go somewhere? To talk?” he asked as she dragged them on and tightened the leather laces that held them closed.

  “I told you, I don’t want or need your help, Liam. You just gave me all I’ll ever want from you.”

  Her gaze was steady as she pulled on her tank top.

  She meant it. Which left him with nowhere to go, nothing to offer.

  “How long have you been singing?” he asked. Mostly because he figured it was a neutral question and he needed to buy time to get his head together.

  “Five years now. Three years as Vixen. She makes it a lot more fun.”

  She moved to stand in front of the mirror, reaching for a tub of face cream. Her gaze found his in the mirror.

  “What about you, Mr. Do-Gooder. What do you do for a crust?”

  “I build custom motorbikes. Mostly choppers.”

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail and smoothed cream over her face, closing her eyes as she cleansed her eye makeup.

  “Figures. You were always fiddling in the garage, tinkering with something or other.”

  She wiped her face with a tissue. Pink skin replaced black and white. When she opened her eyes again he found himself looking at the old Zoe, the girl he’d known so long ago. No heavy kohl, no mask of makeup—just naturally long lashes and clear green eyes and pale skin.

  She reached for a mascara tube and his hand shot out.

  “No.”

  She frowned. “Sorry?”

  “You look better without it.”

  She shook him off and leaned forward to stroke on fresh mascara.

  “I think you’d better go. Thanks for looking me up. It was…interesting,” she said, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.

  He stared at her in the mirror, and she finally looked at him, cocking an eyebrow.

  “What? You want more? Okay, thanks for the sex. You rocked my world more than anyone has in a long time. Happy?”

  Not by a long shot, but he was beginning to realize that there was no way he was going to get through her defenses tonight. She’d bite her tongue off before she asked for help.

  Without another word he turned for the door. He heard her close it behind him as he walked down the corridor. He walked out into rain and an overwhelming sense of guilt.

  He’d stood against the bar tonight watching the men around him wanting her, and he’d wanted to hurt every single one of them. Then he’d gone backstage and hammered himself into her as though she really was nothing more than a hot body.

  He spat in the gutter but it didn’t take away the bad taste in his mouth.

  He’d lost control. She’d gone out of her way to provoke him, sure, but it was no excuse. He revved the Mustang hard and left rubber on the road as he pulled into the street. He’d wanted to help her, and instead he’d let his cock do the thinking.

  It wasn’t going to happen again.

  3

  ZOE SAT IN HER CHANGE ROOM for a long time after Liam had left.

  Slowly she began to gather her things. She didn’t bother putting on the rest of her makeup. She simply packed her kit and folded her stage clothes into her gym bag.

  She could hear the band talking and laughing in the band room when she entered the corridor.

  They’d want to keep partying, go grab a burger and some beers in the city like they usually did after a gig. Even though she’d give anything to be able to walk away without talking to another soul, she forced herself to duck in and make her excuses before escaping.

  Cool rain misted her cheeks when she stepped out into the night. She raised her face and closed her eyes and let it wash over her. Only when her tank top and jeans were soaked did she cross to her car and throw her gear on the backseat.

  It took her ten minutes to drive to her apartment in the inner northern suburb of Essendon. She was shivering by the time she let herself in the front door. She told herself it was because of the rain.

  A weak mewl drew her attention to the corner of her small studio apartment and she crouched down to run a hand over the distended belly of the tabby cat she’d found collapsed in her doorway two nights ago.

  “How are you doing, little miss? You hungry again? Huh?”

  The cat had a collar but no name tag or address, and she’d consumed everything Zoe had put in front of her over the past couple of days. Zoe had no idea when her kittens were due—soon, if the size of the
cat’s belly was anything to go by. Zoe had made a bed out of an old box and some shredded paper and handwritten some notices and posted them in her neighbors’ mailboxes. She hadn’t heard anything yet, but surely someone would be looking for their pet? Or had the cat been abandoned when it fell pregnant?

  Zoe took the time to open a can of tuna for the cat before shedding her clothes and stepping into the shower. She washed herself carefully, making sure every trace of Liam Masters was removed from her skin. She wanted no reminders of what had happened between them tonight—no traces of his aftershave, nothing.

  She hadn’t had time for dinner so she opened another can of tuna and ate it straight from the tin.

  She smiled at the cat as she collected both empty tins and dumped them in the garbage.

  “Dinner for two, hey? It’s all glamour around here, don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

  The cat simply stared at her with big, unblinking eyes. Zoe crouched beside it again and smoothed her hand over its warm, full body.

  “I suppose I should give you a name if you’re going to be hanging around for a while. You got any ideas?”

  Predictably, the cat didn’t have any suggestions.

  “How about Lucky?” she said. “Lucky I found you. Lucky you like tuna. What do you think?”

  This time the cat turned her head to lick Zoe’s hand.

  “Well, that’s that decided, then.”

  She gave the cat one last pat and stood. She felt restless, edgy. Usually after a gig she was wired for a while, but not like this.

  Why had Liam walked back into her life after all these years? Everything had been good, on an even keel. Then he’d walked in the door and tilted everything off balance.

  She crossed to the kitchen to grab the vodka from the freezer. With her back pressed to the cool metal of the fridge door she drank a shot straight up, then another.

  Liquid heat burned its way down her throat and into her belly. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth.

  A flash of memory dragged at her: the first hard, thick slide of Liam’s body inside hers.

  She opened her eyes and poured herself another shot.

  She’d meant for the sex to end things, to draw a line under years of hurt and curiosity and wanting. But it hadn’t felt like an ending. Not even close.

  She climbed into bed and placed the vodka bottle on her bedside table. The fire in her belly was spreading to the rest of her body, making the world fuzzy.

  She just wanted to forget. That was all she’d ever wanted. To pretend none of it had ever happened.

  Beneath the covers, her fingers found the thin, neat line of the scar on her belly. The line formed the stem of her first tattoo, a work that had evolved into the piece that now traversed her belly and hip and wound its way up her spine to wrap itself around her neck. She traced the scar over and over, then pressed both hands flat over her belly.

  Why did you come looking for me, Liam? Why couldn’t you just leave me be?

  The vodka and the bourbon she’d had earlier joined forces to make her eyelids heavy. She pulled the covers up and switched off the light.

  She turned onto her side and hugged her pillow. In the dark, she could hear her clock ticking and the rustle of Lucky moving in her box. Never had she been so grateful for the presence of another living thing.

  Tonight was not a night to be alone.

  ZOE WAS LATE into work the next morning. Jake didn’t say a word but she knew he wasn’t happy. Her first client was cooling her heels in the shop, making noises about going somewhere else for the Lady Smurf tattoo she wanted on her butt, for Pete’s sake. Zoe turned on the charm and had the client smiling in no time.

  Zoe had fallen asleep without turning on her alarm clock last night. She wasn’t quite sure how that had happened, although the whole drinking-herself-into-a-stupor thing probably had something to do with it. She didn’t usually drink alone. Not for a long time, anyway.

  She blamed Liam. Why the hell not, after all? She blamed him for so many other, more important things.

  She’d had sex with him last night. She still couldn’t quite get her head around it. She’d finally experienced the ultimate intimacy with him, had him inside her body. Twelve years too late to mean anything to anyone. Certainly not to her.

  She finished Lady Smurf then started inking in the color on a full-back tattoo for a regular client.

  By lunchtime she’d regained her equilibrium. Jake was talking to her again and she bought him lunch at the local pizza place by way of a suck-up.

  Then Liam walked in the door late in the afternoon and her stomach bottomed out. He was carrying a bunch of flowers—lilies and roses and some purple flower she didn’t recognize. Jake smirked when he saw them. Zoe frowned.

  “No,” she said before he could open his mouth.

  “You don’t know what I’m here for,” Liam said.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to sleep with you again, I don’t like flowers, and I don’t want to talk to you. Unless you were planning on just standing there and breathing, I think you’re all out of options.”

  “I want a tattoo,” he said.

  She stared at him. There was no way he’d come in here looking for a tattoo, she’d bet a month’s pay on it.

  “Marking yourself for life is a pretty serious decision, not an impulse purchase,” she said.

  Liam turned his back and grasped the waistband of his T-shirt, lifting it up to display his back.

  She tore her gaze from his broad shoulders and impressive lats long enough to note he had three tattoos already—some kind of motorcycle gang insignia high on his left shoulder, three lines of gothic writing in latin on his right, and a dragon low on his tailbone. She stepped closer to check them out.

  “Dragon’s nice. This insignia’s a bit ropey, though. You’ve got color missing, bleeding lines.”

  Standing this close, she could smell the fresh sunshiny scent of whatever detergent he washed his clothes in.

  She stepped back and he turned to face her.

  “Can you fit me in?”

  “No,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Jake cleared his throat behind her.

  “Dock my pay,” she said without turning around.

  “What’s wrong, Zoe? Scared I might talk you into something you don’t want to do?” Liam asked.

  “How old do you think I am? You really think a dare’s going to make me change my mind?”

  He slid the tips of his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and let his weight rock back on his heels, waiting.

  “You don’t know me,” she said, stabbing a finger at him.

  “I know that.”

  “You’re not going to talk me into anything.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She glared at him, then swiveled on her boot heel.

  “You’d better not be one of those wimpy guys who gets all sooky at the first bite of the needle,”

  she said as she strode through to the workroom.

  “Hallelujah,” Jake said.

  Liam followed her through and watched while she set up her workstation.

  “What do you want and where do you want it?” she asked as she banged the autoclave shut.

  He lifted his T-shirt and tapped his lower belly.

  “Think you could copy my company logo?” he asked, pulling a business card from his back pocket.

  She studied the card, flicking it with her thumbnail. Masters Mechanics in blocky graffiti text.

  Glossy black card stock. Impressive. He must be doing well.

  “I can do this. Pretty sensitive area, though.”

  “You’ve got a tat on your belly.”

  “I’m tougher than you.”

  He smiled. “Sure you are.”

  She tore the plastic off a fresh set of ink cups.

  “You want it in color?”

  “What do you think would look best?”

  She considered for a minute
. It was tempting to punish him by branding him with an ugly tattoo, but she had her professional pride.

  “Blackwork, lots of shading. It’ll jump,” she said.

  “Good. Where do you want me?”

  She adjusted the client chair, tilting it back so he’d be reclined in front of her.

  “On your back, shirt off. You can take your jeans off or just pull them down. Your choice.”

  She’d seen hundreds of guys strip for tattoos. She’d tattooed asses, groins, thighs, chests. She’d seen it all.

  But she hadn’t seen Liam Masters without his shirt on for a very long time. She forced herself not to stare as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. He had big, defined pec muscles, the kind that came from manual labor, not the gym. His abdominal muscles rippled beneath his skin as he climbed into the chair.

  She looked away when he undid the stud on his jeans, fiddling with her gun and needles. When she looked back, he had his jeans unzipped and spread wide, the top of his boxer-briefs rolled down, his lower belly fully exposed. She stared at the crisp dark curls arrowing down his flat, hard belly, then darted a quick glance at the thicker hair growing at the top of his pelvic bone.

  “I’m going to have to shave you,” she said.

  He shrugged. She grabbed the old-fashioned boar’s bristle shaving brush she preferred and lathered him up. His skin was firm and resilient beneath her hands as she shaved the left side of his belly from navel to just above his groin.

  He lay back with one arm crooked behind his head the whole time, watching her.

  “So, how’s Tom? What’s he up to these days?” he asked as she dried him off.

  She gave him a look. “We’re not talking about my family.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to. Because it’s my life and you’re not a part of it.”

  He was silent as she prepared a spirit master transfer of his company logo.

  “I don’t think you should go any bigger than this,” she said when she displayed the finished image.

  The design she was proposing was approximately three inches across and would sit snugly between the midline of his belly and his hip bone.