Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I don’t play naive. He means the card, and he knows there was someone in my life. “No,” I say, and I shouldn’t say more, yet I do. “I don’t talk to him.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“For how long?”
“Most of those two years I mentioned.”
“But the card—”
“It’s from my father. He died two years ago but apparently left it with Frank for my thirtieth birthday.”
Nick glances at his Rolex, but I am looking at the craftsmanship of the black-and-orange tiger tattoo covering his entire right forearm. “You still have fifteen minutes to read it on your birthday.”
I give a humorless laugh and set the card on the bed. “If I read that, I might need you to spank me again, but harder and longer this time.”
“Then you should read it before I have to go back to San Francisco Sunday night.”
I don’t miss the implication he’s going to stay with me until then, but any right or wrong I might feel from that is muted by the fact that he’ll be gone. This will be over.
He sits down next to me, and his hand settles on my knee, allowing me to catch another glimpse of his tattoo, the black and orange ink evident now. Curious, I reach for his arm and turn it over to study the detail of the beautifully designed blue-eyed tiger etched into his skin. “It has your eyes,” I say, glancing up at him. “Tiger.”
“That was the artist’s idea.”
“Who did it?”
“I had it done six months ago by someone Chris knows in Paris, actually. A guy named Tristan.”
“He’s incredible. I’d be terrified to ink someone’s skin.”
“Your ink would be as incredible as your art, Faith.”
I look up at him. “You don’t have to keep complimenting me.”
“I’m no sweet-talker, Faith. Surely you know that by now. You’re talented, and like my tattoo, your art is a part of you, Faith.”
Rejecting the many places those words could take me right now, I quickly grab his other arm and study the ink there. Just words that read: An eye for an eye.
“That one, I got in college,” he says, but I barely hear him speak, the phrase replaying in my mind: An eye for an eye clawing at me to the point that I feel like I’m bleeding inside. I can feel the rise of emotions, when only yesterday I was afraid because I could feel nothing. I jump to my feet and try to escape Nick, but he grabs my arm and turns me to face him.
“What just happened, Faith?”
“I don’t know if I should admire you or fear you, Nick Rogers. Tiger.”
His eyes narrow, his energy sharpening, and he pulls me between his legs, hands on my hips. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”
Chapter Twelve
Tiger
I stare at Faith, waiting for her reply, and while I do not share my father’s name, I cannot dismiss the possibility that her reaction to my tattoo is about her knowing who I am. That she always knew and she’s a damn good actor. That she knows that the words “an eye for an eye” etched in my arm motivated me to come for her and she’s trying to manipulate me as I suspect her mother did my father. And the idea that he and I, men who do not get manipulated, could be manipulated by a mother and daughter grinds along my nerve endings. Or maybe my tattoo and the words it spells out simply stir guilt in Faith over the sins I suspect her of, which isn’t much better. Or it could be something else entirely, and considering the way she’s rocked my world, I hope like hell it is.
My fingers flex at her hips where I’ve pulled her between my legs. I repeat my question. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”
“I said admire or fear.” Her hands close down on mine. “Why are you honing in on the fear?”
“It’s a strange thing to say, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart with that condescending tone. And you’re shocked about the word fear? Really? This from a man who admitted to me in the gallery bathroom that people fear you?”
“But not you. You said not you.”
“I don’t fear the Nick Rogers with me now. But the words ‘an eye for an eye’ imply that you might love hard, but you hate harder. That’s who you are, right? You’ll tear my throat out if I ever cross you? Which I guess makes it a good thing that I have that hard limit. We fuck. You leave. Now, if you want.”
Relief washes over me, and the intensity of it—my desire for her innocence—shakes me to the core. I do not get personally involved, but then, I don’t fuck my friends or enemies, either. I fuck for release. For pleasure. And she’s personal. In more ways than I expected. “I don’t want to leave, and until you saw my tattoo, you didn’t want me to leave.”