Page 24

“My hip, I think. How long does it take?”

“How big do you want it?”

I hold my fingers about three inches apart. “Like this?”

“Any normal shop, with a tattoo of this complexity, you’d be looking at three to five hours. But this ain’t a normal shop, honey. You’ll be out of here in an hour max.”

“What makes this place different?”

She stares at me with those pale-green gecko eyes until I think she must have gone into some kind of trance. I have to resist snapping my fingers in front of her face.

“This way,” she says abruptly, heading into the other section of the shop.

Once we’re settled in a small back room, she doesn’t speak to me again beyond basic instructions.

The pain sucks, but compared to what I’ve endured since my banshee side woke up, it’s nothing.

I busy myself with my phone to keep my mind off the discomfort.

Dad hasn’t responded to my text. I’m sure he went to church this morning—he never misses.

Did he talk to Edgar or Isabella there? Did they mention that after I ran off, “Cliff” went with me?

They don’t know he’s a Lockwood, and neither does Dad, but if he knows a guy was with me, he’ll have questions.

I debate texting him to see if Edgar told him anything, but I decide silence is best.

“Done,” says Morgana at last.

“You’re a Lockwood, too?” I ask as she puts away her tools.

“Yes.”

“Cool.” I pucker my lips and tug my shorts back up, settling them gingerly into place over the tattoo while I try to come up with a question that won’t sound super awkward.

What kind of supernatural is your family?

Are you the monsters my dad has always claimed you were?

What sort of magic do you practice, if any?

She hands me a sheet on tattoo aftercare, and I suddenly realize I should tip her. My bag is out in Heathcliff’s truck.

“I’ll get my purse,” I say as we walk back out to the front room.

“I already took care of It.” Heathcliff is standing by the counter. “Can I see it?”

I pull down the waistband of my shorts and show him the reddened mark. He lifts his T-shirt and shows me the matching tattoo on his left side, along the slanted V muscle of his abdomen.

“Damn, that’s hot,” I admit aloud.

Bean chuckles. “All right, you two. Have fun today.”

“Remember what I said,” Heathcliff replies with a warning look.

Bean holds up a wad of cash between two fingers. “Not a word to Hindley. We swear, don’t we, Morgana?”

Morgana drifts vaguely into the back without answering.

Once Heathcliff and I are outside in the parking lot, I touch his arm. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No.”

“Money’s tight for both of us. I don’t want you to carry that cost yourself. And you paid for the motel—”

“It’s fine. I have some money coming in soon.”

“The guy you were meeting with at Moretti’s?”

He throws me a surprised glance, approval and caution in his eyes. “You’re quick.”

“I’ve always had to be. So is that guy a client?”

“Kind of. You could say I’m trying to branch out on my own, get out from under my brother’s shadow. Can’t make a clean break yet, but I’m working on it.”

I think of my own small savings account and the struggle to be less dependent on Dad. “I understand.”

“I know you do.” He yanks open the truck door for me. “Get in, girl. I need to take you home.”

Unease crawls through me as I climb into the truck. When he gets in on his side, I say quietly, “I wish we could just drive. I don’t even care where, as long as it’s far from here.”

“Real freedom takes money.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

He chuckles. “The worst.” He punches the button for the stereo, flips through a few channels until he lands on Jackson Dean’s “Don’t Come Lookin’.”

As we roll out of the parking lot, I reach over and grip his thigh. “Take the long way home?”

“Always.”

My hand on his muscular thigh gives me a very naughty idea, especially since he’s still wearing his swim trunks from yesterday. He rinsed them out at the hotel last night and let them dry, so they’re not sandy, but they still smell like the ocean.

I wait until we’re on a long, straight stretch of road, and then I slide my hand up Heathcliff’s thigh and settle my palm over the generous bulge between his legs.

He’s soft when I touch him, but instantly he jumps a little and says, “Aw, shit.” His cock flexes under the shorts, stiffening against the pressure of my hand.

Smirking, I stroke my thumb along the fabric, over the ridge of his length.

“Earnshaw,” he says warningly.

“Eyes on the road,” I murmur. My fingers work their way into his waistband, tugging down the swim trunks and the bit of netting inside that’s supposed to hold his package in place.

His length pops free, and I hold the waistband of the swim trunks away from his body, giving his cock space.

Slowly I unbuckle my seat belt and lean over.

He lifts his right arm and mutters “shit” again as I duck under it.

My lips find the head of his dick, and I tease him with my tongue for a second before taking him into my mouth.

A groan ripples through his body, and the truck swerves slightly.

I pull my mouth off him. “You got this? If you can’t handle it, I’ll stop. I don’t want to die in a car crash with a cock in my mouth.”

“I got it, I swear.”

“Good.” I lick along the veined underside of his dick and swirl my tongue over the tip, tasting the salty sweetness of his precum. Then I run him into my mouth again, deep as I can manage.

“Not gonna lie, Earnshaw,” he says thickly. “I’ve always wanted a girl to do this while I’m driving.”

I hum around him and start bobbing my head.

“Fuck,” Heathcliff chokes out. “Fuck, fuck—”

He takes a turn, managing it smoothly in spite of the tremors I can feel shuddering through his body.

Drawing back, I leave just the head of his dick in my mouth. There’s a spot right beneath it, where it joins to the shaft, that’s especially sensitive for most guys, so I let my teeth scrape lightly through that groove before exerting a few pulses of pressure on it with my tongue.

“God, Cathy,” gasps Heathcliff, and his cock jumps between my lips. I smile and reward him with several long, firm licks before I swallow him again.

He hisses out a breath as his dick slides into the heat of my mouth and throat. His right hand finds the back of my head, and he pushes down, like he can’t help it. I don’t mind—I love the loss of his control, his compulsive need to come.

And come he does, bursting with salty heat inside my mouth. His heavy groan reverberates through the truck, and though his steering wobbles a bit, he keeps the truck on the road, as far as I can tell. I take my time swallowing and sucking, so I won’t gag and he’ll get every last bit of pleasure.

There’s a wicked satisfaction in knowing his come is in my belly, his flavor on my tongue. I savor him for another second and then withdraw, carefully pulling his swim trunks back into place over his damp cock. He adjusts himself, still panting.

“Filthy woman,” he breathes, with a look of pure sin in my direction.

And then he swerves off the road.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim, bracing myself. “Heathcliff, what are you doing?”

“Off-roading.” The truck bumps into a field of brownish grass, over clumps and clods. This field isn’t fenced in. It lies open and fallow under the blue autumn sky.

“You’re gonna wreck your truck,” I say.

“It’s Hindley’s truck. I don’t own a vehicle.”

“Oh.”

My mental perspective shifts a little, from truck-owning Heathcliff to truck-borrowing Heathcliff. I’m oddly disappointed, possibly because truck-owning Heathcliff represented more possibilities, more freedom, and Heathcliff without a vehicle is stuck here, like I am.

Heathcliff stops the truck. His side is facing the road, while mine faces the field and the trees. He swings out of the driver’s door, marches around the front of the truck, and yanks my door open. His big hands close on my wrists and he pulls me out of the passenger seat, onto the grass.

“Heathcliff, what—”

His thick, warm fingers brush my stomach as he undoes the button of my shorts and drags down the zipper.

Then he pushes the shorts down to my ankles.

I’m not wearing panties, and the kiss of the soft breeze on my pussy makes me shiver with pleasure.

The air is golden, the faint bite of last night’s chill mingling with the indomitable heat of the Southern sun.

The fresh scent of the distant trees and the heavy, damp aroma of the soil fills my nostrils.

I think I could breathe this air forever and be perfectly happy.

“Heathcliff,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just maintains that fierce, purposeful silence while he grabs my waist and lifts my bare ass back onto the passenger seat, taking off my flip-flops, sliding off my shorts, and tossing everything onto his seat. Then he pushes my legs open.

I feel the lips of my sex parting wetly, spreading for him while he braces both palms against my thighs, holding me in place.

Heathcliff goes down to one knee. He looks up at me, and I hold my breath, stunned by how gorgeous he is at this moment, with the sun gilding his black hair and his brown eyes glowing at me like dark embers. He traces his tongue across his full lips.

I think he’s asking for permission. Or at least, giving me the chance to say no. Which is wise of him, especially after my banshee got a little too excited last night.

No matter what the risks, no matter what damage I might do, I refuse to give him up. Which means I need to practice self-control, and there’s no better time to do that than right now, in the middle of nowhere.

He’s still looking at me questioningly—no, wait, his gaze has dipped to my pussy. He’s staring at it with a grim-jawed hunger that makes me feel wonderfully wicked.

I reach between my legs and slide one finger through my folds before swirling it over my clit. Then I lean back, bracing myself on both hands, and I give him a smile that’s also a challenge.