Full Contact (3 page)

You like the fish?

Oh. My. God. The Predator is sitting in my chair.

“What’s the matter?” Rose grabs my elbow to steady me. “You know that guy?”

“He’s my fantasy man,” I whisper. “Except he stepped out of the fantasy on the weekend and it totally threw me off. He mentioned he needed a cover, but I didn’t think he was serious.”

Rose raises an eyebrow. “He looks serious to me. Maybe you’re his fantasy woman.”

“He has a girlfriend.”

“The good ones always do.” Rose gives my arm a sympathetic squeeze and then makes a show of placing my equipment on my workstation, which involves much bending over and a significant threat of chest overexposure.

“Hey, Ray. What’s up?” I feign nonchalance, like men I have lusted over for the last year always show up at my studio at seven o’clock on a Saturday night wearing commando pants that are tight in all the right places and a kick-ass Affliction T-shirt stretched tight over rippling abs. Keeping my back to him, I manage to straighten my equipment without dropping anything and then stand awkwardly beside the chair, only inches away from his muscular forearm.

Ray’s gaze travels over my body, from the pink streak in my hair I just added this morning, to my boobs, miraculously enlarged with a strategically padded bra and a two-sizes-too-small tank top, then down to my Jack Daniels belt buckle, over my leather-pant clad hips, and back up again. By the time he’s done with his perusal, I’m sweating, horny, and ready to push him back in the chair and tear off his clothes.

“You done?” I lift an admonishing eyebrow, but Ray just smiles.

“Fucking awesome ink.” He traces a finger up my arm, following the vines that extend from my wrist to my shoulder. His touch is electric. I bite back a whimper as every nerve ending in my body fires at once. His voice has a rasp that makes me think about sex. Rip-off-my-clothes, toss-me-on-the-bed, fuck-me-till-I-scream sex.

“Slim did it.” I gesture toward Slim as he heads to the back of the shop. “He can do you. Tat-wise, I mean. Now. ’Cause he’s free. He just went back to sterilize his equipment.” I slam my lips shut. Could I possibly sound more like an idiot?

Ray frowns.

“Or not.” Inwardly cringing at my lack of social skills, I cut myself off and vow never to speak again.

Ray picks up my portfolio from the cart on his other side and thumbs through it. “Saw your work when I asked around at Redemption. Decided you should be the one to cover me.”

My heart hammers in my chest so hard I think I might break a rib. Ink Ray? Put my hands on that magnificent body? Although I have dreamed about it, even designed a tattoo for him in my head, seeing him in my chair now, I know I won’t be able to do it. He unnerves me. Arouses me. My hands will shake too much to hold the tattoo machine. I’d probably ruin that beautiful skin for life.

“Actually, I…uh…was about to leave. But like I said, Slim’s free. Or Duncan.”

Ray tilts his head to the side and his eyes soften. “I want you.”

Burn, cheeks, burn. “I’m sorry…I have…uh…plans.” I should just tell him I’m going to a party, or that my bestie has set me up with her sister’s best friend’s cousin’s wife’s brother, and that I really shouldn’t miss it because I only go out with people who can be vouched for by people I know and I’m running out of inventory. I could also easily tell him the date will go nowhere because they never do. But for some reason the words don’t come out.

His eyes narrow. “Changeable plans?”

“Personal plans,” I say, trying to hide my desperate need to get him out of my chair before I throw myself on him in a frenzy of lust or, worse, actually agree to do his ink. “And really, it would be better if you come back tomorrow, when I have time to discuss what you need and draw up a few designs. I don’t want to do a half-assed job.”

“Hot date?” Ray carefully places my portfolio back on the cart and folds his arms across his delectable chest.

I suck in a sharp breath. “I didn’t say I had a date.”

He gives me a smug look. “You didn’t have to. You have a very expressive face and your body language says you’re trying to hide something.” He taps my folded arms. “The likely explanation is a date, and you don’t want me to know about it.” His lips curl into a sensual smile. “Why don’t you want me to know about your date?”

Damn. Caught out. Me and my expressive face. This is exactly why I always got Tag to steal the cookies when we were growing up. I twist my ring around my finger and press my lips together as my temper starts to rise. “Maybe I’m planning to rob a bank or steal a car and go joyriding. Maybe I’m working a pole at a local strip joint. Or maybe I’m just meeting my bestie for a burger. There are hundreds of things I could be doing tonight.”

“Definitely a date then. What’s his name?”

“I don’t think his name is any of your business.”

Ray doesn’t take the hint. “Ah. So it is a date.” He winks and I am hard pressed not to smile. “First date? Second?”

My skin prickles with a flush of heat. What’s with all the questions? He can’t possibly be interested. He’s the Predator. He has the body of a demigod. Beautiful women throw themselves at him after his fights. They are his for the taking. Which makes him perversely safe for an ordinary girl like me. Why order regular coffee when you can have a triple-shot espresso with cream?

“First date.”

He gives a disapproving grunt. “You got a picture? Gimme a visual.”

“I’ve never met him.”

His face softens with a smile. “Good to know.”

“I can’t imagine why.” But I can fantasize, and my imagination goes off the deep end. He wants me so bad, he came here tonight pretending he wanted a tattoo. He wants to fuck me, make me come in every dirty way I’ve read about and have been too afraid to try.

“Men like to know the lay of the land.” He shifts in the chair, drawing my attention to the breadth of his shoulders, the thick biceps protruding from the tight sleeves of his T-shirt, his lightly tanned forearms covered in soft, downy hair. I have never been so sexually attracted to anyone in my entire life, and the feeling of not being in control of my responses is unsettling.

“I thought you came to get a tat, not to discuss my personal life, which I can guarantee will bore you in three seconds flat. You’re almost as bad as Tag with all the questions. I already have a bossy, overprotective man in my life. I don’t need another.”

“Man’s overprotective, he usually has a reason.”

My blood runs cold. Would Tag have told him our secret? No. Never. We made a pact that night, and I trust him never to break it. “No particular reason. That’s just who he is.” Hopefully, my expressive face won’t show Ray that I’m lying through my teeth.

A crease forms along Ray’s brow. “He know you’re going on this date?”

I heave a sigh and his gaze drops to my boobs. Christos was partially right. With the padded bra, I do have assets. “FYI, I don’t report every detail of my life to Tag, but just in case you get any ideas”—I poke him gently in the chest, more to cop a feel than out of real annoyance—“it’s none of your business, just like it’s none of his.” I emphasize each word and lean toward him in what I hope is a menacing way.

“Fuck, you’re cute. Did you know your eyes go green when you’re scared?”

Hmmm. Not really the look I was going for. I would have preferred sultry, sophisticated, or even badass. Who calls a woman pierced, dyed, leathered, and tatted
cute
? “First, my eyes are hazel, not green. And second, you won’t think I’m cute if you say anything to Tag.”

He stares, his gaze at once amused and intense. “Maybe not if you give me your ink.”

“Seriously?” My voice rises in pitch. “You’re blackmailing me?”

Ray slides back in my chair with the smug look of a man who knows he’s about to get what he wants. “You want to ink me. You didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You would already be out that door. Question is whether you want it more than what you got going on tonight.”

The last of my inhibitions flutters away like a tattoo artist pursued by a street gang. “I don’t.”

“You do.” His eyes glitter, and he licks his beautiful, sensual lips, as if daring me to make a move. And I almost do. I want him. I’ve wanted him for a year. And now he’s here. In my chair. Making me think he wants me too. I could almost forgive his insufferable arrogance.

“Okay, I do. Covers are a specialty of mine. But are you sure you want to irritate a woman who’ll be wielding a tattoo machine that could do some permanent damage to your skin, or worse, give you a tattoo that will embarrass you for life?”

He pushes up the left sleeve of his T-shirt and holds out his arm. “Sounds to me like you’re saying yes. And it can’t be worse than this.”

My lips quiver with a repressed smile, and I trace my finger over the chubby orange smiley fish on his bicep. “I noticed it when you were fighting, but I was never close enough to see what it was.”

“Otto the fish from a children’s picture book. Got fucking drunk one night and must have mentioned it was my favorite book when I was a kid. A coupla my buddies dragged me to a tattoo studio, and I woke up the next day with Otto.”

Laughter erupts from my throat and I pat tiny Otto’s head. “I like Otto. And he was actually done by a master artist. Look how his scales glow and shimmer, and the way he ripples when you move your arm. It would be a shame to ink over him.”

Ray slides a finger under my chin and tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his searing gaze. “You got a pretty smile. It lights up your face, chases away the shadows. And you got a lot of shadows.”

My cheeks flame at his insight, and I look away. “Shadows” doesn’t even begin to describe the baggage I’ve been carrying around—baggage that means I usually stay away from alpha males like Ray. “So how did you want to cover Otto?”

“You like the fish?” Ray says quietly.

“Yeah, I like the fish.”

“I’ll keep the fish.”

My head jerks up, and I can’t help but snort a laugh. “You can’t keep a tat you hate just because I like it. You don’t even know me. And it doesn’t really go with your Predator image in the ring.”

He captures me with his gaze, deep, dark, and delicious. “What would you cover it with?”

Without thinking, I stroke the tat on his bicep. I always get my best ideas through touch. So hard. So warm. So smooth. His muscle flexes under my fingers, rippling beneath the skin. But that is Ray. Hidden depths. Wild. Untamed.

“Sia?” His deep voice rumbles through me, and my hand vibrates against his arm. Instantly, I know how I would ink him. Grabbing my notebook and pencil, I sketch out a design, partially abstract, partially tribal, merging lines and patterns until they form the rough outline of a wolf.

“This.” I hold up the notepad. “This is what I would do. This is what I see every time I watch you fight.”

He takes the notebook and studies it for a moment longer than is comfortable. My pulse kicks up a notch and disappointment clenches my gut. He doesn’t like it.

His gaze locks on mine, heated and heavy. “You
see
this?”

“It’s the great wolf, Fenrir, from Norse legend.” I shrug and grab the notepad from his hand. “Fenrir was a bit of a troublemaker so the gods decided to put him in shackles. However, Fenrir was so strong that there was no chain that could hold him. The gods asked the dwarves to create a magical ribbon that even Fenrir couldn’t escape. But Fenrir said he would only allow himself to be tied if one of the gods was willing to make a sacrifice and stick a hand in Fenrir’s mouth. And when one of them did, Fenrir bit it off.”

Silence.

I cringe under his unwavering gaze and sit heavily on my artist’s chair, which brings my eyes level with his strong chin.
Damn.
“I can come up with something else…”

“Did the ribbon have big hazel eyes and long, silky dark hair, awesome tats, and the sweetest fucking smile on the West Coast?”

An inferno rages in my cheeks. “Actually, it was a just an ordinary red ribbon.”

“Like the scarf you wore the other night.”

He
remembers
my
scarf.

Ray pulls up his T-shirt to reveal his rippled six-pack and then points to a long, jagged scar running across his left pec. “Think you can do it here?”

My training kicks in at the sight of his scar. Taking a deep breath, I gently run a finger along the edges. Five years old, maybe six from the way it healed, and deep. His skin is smooth, warm over the hard ripple of muscle beneath.

“Yeah. I would have to modify it, make it bigger, but I could stretch it to cover the scar and then extend it and blend it in with the rest of your shoulder tat, but it would be quite painful. Scar tissue is more sensitive than skin, and you have a lot of it.”

Ray draws in a ragged breath. “Not afraid of pain. Getting that scar was more pain than the needle would be.”

My mouth waters at the thought of inking Ray’s skin. “If you want to talk to Rose, she can set you up—”

“Now.”

“Now?” My heart pounds in my chest. Now means freehand, which I’m not allowed to do. And I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for my fantasies to become real. I don’t want to find out Ray isn’t all I imagined he would be.

Finding my tongue, I look up at Ray. “For a piece that size, you should really let me do a couple of designs and then a stencil, so you can be sure it’s what you want. Everyone will see it when you’re fighting. I want it to be perfect for you. Tattoos are forever.”

A curious expression crosses his face, part longing, part disappointment, all sensual promise. “I’ve gotta go outta town for a coupla days, but I’ll be training at Redemption tomorrow afternoon before I leave. You got time to bring me your designs?”

My throat tightens, burns. Tag forbade me from going to Redemption after Amanda, the club’s attorney, was attacked in an alley a few blocks away from the gym. Even though I know most of the fighters, and would never walk around Ghost Town alone, Tag still added it to his “no-go” list. Of course, if I always listened to Tag, there would be few places in the Bay Area I would be able to go, and even fewer places I would get a chance to see Ray.