Marked as His (4 page)

So she’d found his snapping point. Folding her arms, she attempted her best glare. The one that usually put the dirty bastards in the welding shop in their places so she could do her job.

“Let me go,” he huffed between efforts to rip the posts off her bed. His muscles flexed so her mind filled with visions of the Greek god Prometheus chained to a rock. Only the flimsy metal wasn’t stone, and Paxton had a damn good chance of breaking free.

“Stop it,” she ordered.

His face was red and a vein throbbed in his neck between tattoos. “Or what? Do your worst.”

Why was he challenging her? Did he believe she’d be unnerved enough to let him go? He didn’t know her very well.

He doesn’t know me at all, and I mean to keep it that way.

“You can’t hurt me, Santana. And if you think for a minute that the Hell’s Sons won’t blow into this condo—”

She sidled to the bed and gave him a wide smile.

He fell still, panting, gazing up at her. Exactly where she wanted him, hooked in the mouth. She slowly reeled him in.

“You don’t want to break my bed, do you?” Her voice was sweet enough that he calmed more.

“Only if you’re in it with me.”

Ignoring the leap of fire in her belly, she dragged her gaze over him with extreme slowness. She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Wouldn’t you like that, baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You want my hands on you?”

“Hell yeah.” His eyebrows unknitted but he still looked fierce. Maybe in a different way.

“Looks as though you’ve had plenty of hands on you. You have a lot of ink.”

“I’d let you ink me if it means you getting closer.”

She stared. “We’ll see about that, but I think I can grant some requests. I’m not without sympathy. I did give you a drink and allow you to use the bathroom.”

His dark eyes smoldered. “That’s right, love. Give a man some ease. My arms are aching.”

She smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

Spinning out the door again, she went into the kitchen and rattled around, gathering supplies. She took everything back to the bed and dumped it next to his muscled thigh.

“What’s that?” He looked at the needle and lighter.

“Ah, there’s one more thing.” She went into the bathroom and came out with a bottle of hair dye. Her friend Lindsay had talked her into trying some chestnut highlights but she hadn’t gotten around to it yet. The dye would come in handy.

She uncapped the bottle and mixed it on the dresser top, careful not to spill any. Paxton’s heavy gaze never left her. When she turned with the bottle he asked, “What are you doing with that? Are we playing hair stylist?”

With a shake of her head, she set everything on the nightstand and pulled up a small padded stool from the corner. She plopped down and flicked the lighter. The flame glowed orange, and she stuck the needle into it.

“Wait. What the hell are you doing?”

She looked up, needle suspended in midair. “You really haven’t been to prison, have you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Single-needle tattoos are often done this way in prison. With hair dye someone sends an inmate. You dip and stab.” She made a motion and Paxton winced. She fought the laugh bubbling in her chest. Sweeping her gaze over his body, she said, “Now where’s the best spot?”

His breathing was coming ragged though he was trying to keep his cool. “You’re going to ink me?”

“You came up with the idea. Now you’ll have more than my touch.” She said the last word seductively, leaning over to give him a glimpse of her cleavage. His gaze latched onto her breasts and he nodded.

She plopped back onto the stool, stunned. Her drawing capabilities ended at stick figures. Was he really going to allow her to stab hair dye into his skin and mark him for life after a glimpse of her tits? Apparently all he required of a tattoo artist was a good rack.

She shrugged and swirled the sterilized needle through the dye. “Usually a small motor moves the needle up and down like a professional tattoo machine, but well…all I have is a blender. I’m not sure how that would work.” She stopped and chewed her lower lip as if in thought. His gaze followed the action.

Awareness was stealing over her by the second. A huge sexy man was in her bed and her body ached for release. She hadn’t had a relationship—or even a one-night stand—in too long, and Paxton was definitely her type. Unfortunately her type.

She couldn’t forget he was also her prisoner.

“I guess I could fit the needle into a pen.”

His brow crinkled. “Flick the end and stab dye into me?”

“Precisely.”

“Sounds like a piss-poor setup, Santana. Stop this.”

“On second thought, the dye might be a bad idea. You could have an allergic reaction. See? It says right here.” She flapped the paper instructions. One rubber glove fluttered to the carpet.

“Hair dye’s going to look like shit.”

She smiled gleefully. “Yes, it is. Maybe burned plastic? I’ve heard that works. Or Styrofoam. I have some cups left over from last summer’s barbecue. Excuse me a minute while I melt one down.”

“You’re going to ink me with Styrofoam?” he roared as she went into the kitchen. She let him yell for several minutes while chuckling to herself. When she returned with the cup melted into a defunct mess of chemicals, he shook the bed until she thought he’d surely break it.

“Get the hell away from me. You’re a crazy woman,” he huffed.

She dipped the needle in the mess and poised it over a tiny spot on his forearm where a hint of tanned skin showed through the beauty of his other tattoos. “I always wanted to try this.”

“Like hell.” He jerked his leg, catching her middle. She lost her balance and toppled over him. The needle stabbed into the bedcovers. Before she could get her bearings, Paxton clamped a thigh over her, pinning her to his big body.

She felt every muscled, angry inch of biker.

The warmth that had been like molasses in her lower belly trickled hotter, faster. She looked up into his face and wished she hadn’t.

Pushing against him, she tried to escape but he used his other thigh to trap her further. Her handgun was out of reach, the bullets lying on the dresser like brass tears of lost hope.

When it came down to it, she was helpless against a man of his strength. Why hadn’t she thought to tie his legs?

Because I’m not a professional kidnapper.

Fury burned and she released a scream.

“I don’t mind if you fight a little, love. I like my women feisty.”

“Let me go!” She tried to kick free but her hips were locked to his. His cock bulged into her stomach, bringing a new unwanted spike of lust.

“I’m not afraid of pain. Or a woman like you,” he said intensely.

“I’m not weak.”

He tried to twist the posts off but they didn’t move. Then he tried again and a bolt snapped. The post bent inward.

At least she had her hands. She punched him in the jaw, rocking his head to the side. He grinned at her.

“You’re a strong woman. I admire that.” His tone pitched so low that juices squeezed from her pussy. Her nipples throbbed into tight peaks and she did the only thing she could think of.

She stabbed him with the needle in the wrist.

He yowled and she rolled free, taking the needle with her. He cussed and glared at her while she scrambled to her feet and wiped tendrils of hair out of her eyes. She was breathing too fast, her body still humming from contact with his.

Seconds ticked by. How long had he been cuffed to her bed? Three hours or so.

This couldn’t go on, but how to get out of it now? She’d provoked him, angered him, stabbed him. She’d threatened to shoot him, let him piss himself, leave him to starve and dehydrate, and to tattoo him with melted Styrofoam for the ultimate at-home prison tat experience.

Paxton was calmer. Actually, he was looking at her with admiration gleaming in his eyes.

“You’re smart as hell, I’ll give you that. You had me believing you were really going to tattoo me with that.”

“I still can.” She raised the needle like a dagger but felt none of the animosity she had earlier. It seemed to have flowed away at the first flare of hormones.

She laid the needle next to the bullets and rubbed a hand over her face. She needed space, distance.

“Where are you going? Santana, uncuff me.” His growl followed her out the door.

She kept walking.

Paxton wet his dry lips—or at least tried to. Why did it feel as if all his energy was being sapped lying in this bed? Maybe because Santana kept him in a fever of lust.

He shifted his shoulders, feeling too hot and achy. Hell, the stiffness of his muscles was nothing compared to the hardness in his jeans. He thanked the gods for his lowered zipper.

“Santana,” he called.

No answer. Had she left? According to the clock, she’d been out of the room for two hours. He’d played nice with her but now he was about to break her fucking cheap bed.

Gripping the post, he pulled. The screech of metal brought the sound of footsteps. He continued to yank until the post angled toward the mattress. Unless it broke free completely, he wouldn’t be able to slide the cuffs off the metal.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting out of here.”

“You’ll never get that post the whole way off. It’s bolted in several places.”

“Watch me.” Setting his molars together, he pulled with all his might. Another bolt snapped, and Santana cried out.

“That’s enough! What do you want?”

“I want uncuffed. Now.” For hours he’d been lying here thinking about that light in her eyes. He’d seen her relenting. He met her gaze. “You’re not a kidnapper, Santana. Why are you doing this?”

“You’re not taking me to my father. The only way I’ll go is in a body bag.”

He released a rough sigh. “Dramatic much?”

“I’m not dramatic. Actually…” She shoved her fingers through her long hair, sending the locks floating around her lush breasts. Paxton throbbed. “You’re right. I’m not this person. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I brought you here.”

“No?” He didn’t know if he liked this side of her. When she wore that tough armor and packed heat, she seemed so confident. Now she looked defeated. Uncertain.

“Why don’t you get me a drink and we’ll talk?” he asked quietly.

Five minutes later he’d gulped down a glass of sweet tea and convinced her to cuff his hands together in front of him. She watched him flex his fingers and roll his shoulders before taking a seat on the stool.

“Talk to me, Santana.”

She twisted her lips. “Are you a therapist now?”

“No, but a man doesn’t tattoo for years and not become a good listener. The things I know about people would send you running and screaming. But that’s the thing—their secrets are in here.” He raised his bound hands and tapped a finger against his forehead.

He could see her relenting. Her shoulders were slumped, and he had the overwhelming urge to tug her against his chest and hold her while she talked it out.

With a glance at the clock, she said, “It’s been a long day. I could use a beer.”

He arched a brow.

“You want one?”

He gave a nod and she vanished once more. He pivoted to the edge of the bed to stretch but mostly to watch her ass sway out of the room. He could overpower her when she returned. It would be easy to toss her over his shoulder and call for someone to come with a van. But this was Santana’s party and he wanted to see how she ended it.

Her idea of torture amused the hell out of him. She was a tough chick, no question. But he could see some inner struggle taking place. He’d seen it in gang members in his youth. They wanted to act like hard-asses but when it came down to pulling the trigger, they turned into crybabies.

Though Santana
was
Tommy’s daughter. Tough to the core.

When she returned with two icy beers, she placed one between his hands. He drank off half of it without breathing while she sipped slowly.

“You’re right, you know,” she said softly, staring at her bottle.

“About?”

“I’m not a kidnapper.”

“Then you don’t keep handcuffs in your bedroom for your next victim?”

“No, I dated a cop a while back.”

Something dark and foreign moved through him. He probably knew the cop but he didn’t want to know who’d been in this bed, loving Santana.

“And the gun?”

“I carry that in my purse. You’ve seen where I work.”

Another hot pulse of emotion in his skull and he clenched his fingers together. “They give you trouble?”

When she pressed her lips together, he knew the answer.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me. You have to piss again.”

“No. It angers me that men treat you that way. Why do you work there?”

“It’s good pay.”

“I bet there’s another reason.”

She raised the beer to her plump lips, inspiring dizzying moments where his control slipped. “Do tell, Mr. Therapist.”

“You like the rough life. The darker side of men is what you grew up with and you won’t admit it, but you want to be back there.”

She was shaking her head before he’d finished. “Nice try, but nothing could be further from the truth. My old man did me a favor in turning us out.” She waved at her surroundings. “Ever see a club bitch with a condo like this?”

“I’ve never been to their homes, but I’m sure they have skulls on their bedding and pentagrams on their walls.”

Her snort was almost a laugh. She finished her beer and set it aside. Then she took his empty bottle and set them on the nightstand with the melted Styrofoam and hair dye.

“I’m glad to be away from the Hell’s Sons.”

“We’re not all bad.”

At that, she threw her head back and laughed. Her face transformed, eyes crinkling and lips spreading upward into a ray of sunshine. He stared at her twinkling eyes and let the musical tone of her laugh burrow deep.

Too deep.

“If I wasn’t wearing this cut and these patches, you’d like me.”

She sobered and her breaths quickened. “Nice try. You’re still an asshole without the leather and patches. Besides, I’m not remotely attracted to you.”