Page 20

That's how much I'd been working my clit, thinking about Tyson's hands spanning my waist, how small I'd felt pressed against his chest. Pathetic. Twenty-eight years old and rubbing myself raw over an accidental collision.

The worst part? It wasn't even working anymore. I'd come three times last night alone—fingers, vibrator, showerhead—and still woke up at 3 AM humping my pillow like a cat in heat. My pussy was actually sore. Swollen and oversensitive from constant attention, but still aching for something my own hands couldn't provide.

Something Tyson-sized.

Fuck my entire life.

I’d taken my guitar case into the tatoo parlor. It was in the office, hidden away. Just about the only thing I could think of to calm me down was playing with my Little things. I’d go in early, open it up, and have a suck on the pacifier for a while to—

I flipped on the lights and froze. Tyson was here already—halfway up a ladder, installing cameras in the corner. Tool belt slung low on his hips. Black t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned skin and muscle.

My mouth went desert-dry. My pussy, already primed from my morning shower session, clenched hard enough to hurt.

"Morning," he said without looking down. Like he'd sensed me the second I walked in. Probably had. Man noticed everything with those watchful brown eyes. “Just putting the finishing touches to the alarm system.”

"It's 7 AM," I managed. "Don't you have, like, a life?"

"This is my life. Keeping you safe."

The words shouldn't have made my stomach flip. Shouldn't have made me want to climb that ladder and wrap myself around him like a koala. A very horny, very desperate koala who hadn't been properly fucked in—

Nope. Not going there.

I needed chaos. Needed to make him as uncomfortable as I felt. Needed to do something with my hands that wasn't shoving them down my pants in the middle of my workplace.

My emergency craft drawer called to me like salvation.

Every artist has one—the drawer full of weird supplies for when inspiration strikes. Mine just happened to be heavily stocked with glitter, rhinestones, and hot glue guns. Don't judge. Sometimes a girl needs to bedazzle things.

Today, that thing would be Tyson's precious tactical equipment. I had to make the alarm system he’d been working on a little more fun to look at.

I pulled out my supplies, spreading them across the counter with the focus of a surgeon preparing for operation. Purple rhinestones. Holographic stickers. Three different kinds of glitter. Hot glue gun warming up like a weapon.

"What are you doing?"

His voice held that edge of control that made me want to push harder. Made me want to find out exactly what it would take to make him snap. To make him grab me like he had the other day, except this time—

"Improving your boring-ass equipment." I grabbed the nearest installed camera, already plotting. "This one's General Sparkles."

The first purple rhinestone went on with surgical precision. Then another. Building a pattern that was actually kind of pretty, if you liked that sort of thing.

"Lena, these are discreet cameras—"

"Exactly why they need personality." I kept working, adding a few holographic stars for variety. "That one up there is gonna be Sergeant Glitter, and the corner one will be Lieutenant Rainbow."

I could feel him watching me. The weight of his stare made my skin prickle with awareness. Made me hyperconscious of how I was standing—hip cocked, tongue poking out in concentration.

"This compromises the equipment," he said, but he didn't stop me. Didn't climb down and physically remove the hot glue gun from my hands, though we both knew he could.

"Actually," I lectured, adding more rhinestones in a spiraling pattern, "the rhinestones create reflection patterns. If anyone moves them, I'll notice the light difference immediately."

Silence from above. I glanced up to find him staring at me with something like surprise. His eyes narrowed.

“So it’s not to make them look . . . fabulous?”

“That’s just an added bonus.”

His gaze shifted again. Was that approval?