Page 22 of Inked Daddies

After hooking up in a burning cornfield, the other two tend the fire, and it’s Tex who sends the bad guy packing. Just Tex. Then, he asks for a reward of sorts. Scarlett is happy to oblige.

I can feel my cheeks heating as I write, the words tumbling out faster than I can think them. I’ve written scenes like this before—too many to count—but something about this one feels…different.

Maybe it’s because it’s still so fresh in my mind. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time, I’m not writing pure fantasy.

I’m writing what I felt.

The way Tex—Trick—looked at Scarlett like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way he didn’t touch her, but she knew if she gave permission, he would never stop touching her. He gave her a silent promise with those piercing blue eyes.

I lose myself in the story, my heart racing as I describe Scarlett’s trembling breaths, the reassuring touch of Tex’s hand on her arm, the heat in his eyes as he studies her face, the teasing curveof his smile as he says something that makes her laugh despite everything.

I’ve written tension before, but this? This is something else entirely.

By the time I pause to catch my breath, my hands are shaking. It’s not just the writing—it’s what the writing does to me.

The characters aren’t real, but they feel real to me. The weight of Tex’s hands, the warmth of his touch, the way his voice dips just slightly when he teases—it’s all too vivid, too sharp. I feel it. His heat, his touch. His…well, him. I feel every detail of him.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen as my pulse pounds in my ears.

The library is still empty. Just like always. No one ever comes in. The air conditioning hums softly, the fluorescent lights casting their dim glow over the rows of bookshelves. The library has no cameras.

I swallow hard, my eyes drifting to the edge of my skirt.

It’s wrong. Iknowit’s wrong. But the thought of sneaking away to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, and trying to quietly take care of this…that feels worse somehow. Like hiding it would make it dirtier than it already is.

Dirtier than I already am.

I glance at the clock. Two hours left in my shift. Two hours until I can go home and pretend none of this ever happened. But two hours feels like an eternity. And I don’t want to wait.

I glance around the library one more time, my heart racing as I make sure I’m really, truly alone.

No one’s here. No one will know. I’m behind the desk, which means I have a view of the side parking lot through the large picture window. No one has pulled into the spots. I’ll know if someone shows up long before they park their car.

I need relief. I can’t think. I’m too wound up.

My hands shake as I slide my chair back just slightly, the hem of my skirt bunching around my thighs. I tug it higher, my pulse thundering in my ears as I let my hand drift down, lower, lower?—

The bell above the door rings.

I freeze, my heart lurching into my throat as the sound echoes through the empty library. I scan the parking lot—no one has pulled in.

All the same, someone’s here.

10

HUGO

Walking into the library,I half expect Marie to yell at me for startling her. Not that she ever would. Marie’s too polite for that, too sweet. She’s a good girl.

But the way her wide brown eyes snap to me when the bell jingles over the door—surprised, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to walk in on her little Sunday escape—that look alone is worth the trip across the street.

I like surprising her. Maybe I shouldn’t. But I do. She’s too quiet, her life too orderly. She works most days, coming in at the same time, leaving at the same time. Never deviating from her schedule, always doing right by her father. She needs someone to shake her up.

I’m the man for the job.

A healthy bit of chaos, my mother called me. My father died when I was a toddler, so she was the only authority in my life, not that she exercised it. She was always willing to overlook my indiscretions as a boy, so when I vanished for a year without aword and then returned home, the only thing she said was, “Is anyone pregnant?”

Thankfully, no. I was seventeen, far too young for that sort of responsibility. Not that I wasn’t up to a different kind of chaos at the time. But it was the kind of chaos I couldn’t speak about. At least, not to her.

---