Page 9 of Axel

I peer into the sink, shocked that there’s not a single beard hair. Though his beard is long enough that my fingers yearn to comb through it, he definitely trimmed it today. “A little, yes.”

Turning on the water, he glances at me. “Your tattoo artist hero a slob or something?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hold up your shirt.”

“What?”

Axel presents a damp washcloth at the ready. “Your tattoo.”

“Oh right.” I reach for the hem, but before I lift up the fabric, I toy with the idea of letting myself be a little daring. With crossing a line I’d firmly told myself I wouldn’t cross. But here in this tight space, the electric current between us undeniable, all rational thoughts have fled. The pounding in my ears has drowned out any warning bells.Is that my heartbeat or a jackhammer next door?

Why not?The devil on my shoulder whispers.You leave in a few days. No one will get hurt.I swallow hard, waiting for a rebuttal from the other corner of my mind, but there’s only silence. I guess, by some miracle, we’re all on the same page. In a flirty tone, I say, “Or I could just take it off.”

Our eyes meet and time freezes. Every unspoken thought lives in this gaze. “It’s your story, Princess.”

Shit. No.Abort. Abort.“That’s not what I meant,” I lie.

One corner of Axel’s mouth lifts in a dangerous half smile that causes all sorts of sensations to erupt in my core. God I want this man. I want him so fucking bad it should scare me. Itdoesscare me and I know in my core, it’s neither angel nor devil trying to pull back. It’s the coward. The one that pretends to live in her research but is actually living vicariously through her words.

His gaze dips to my shirt, the swell of my breasts close enough to mark every shaky exhale, and then looks back to my eyes. “I think it’s exactly what you meant.”

“I don’t want my favorite shirt to get any more ruined than it already is.” It’s a pathetic coverup for the lie I’m clinging to. A last-ditch effort to hold the ground I promised myself I would when I decided to show up on his doorstep. That lie is the only thing keeping me from doing something incredibly reckless. Like fisting my hands in his shirt and yanking his mouth to mine.

Instead, I do the next less reckless thing and grab the hem of my shirt to pull it off.

“Here,” Axel says, shoving a bottle of hand sanitizer at me.

“What’s this for?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment. I didn’t strip out of my shirt to seduce the man.Keep the lies coming, Kelsey.

“For your shirt. If you use something alcohol based early enough, it can break down the ink and prevent it from setting. You might still be able to save your precious shirt.”

“Oh.”

“Lean back,” he instructs, turning on the faucet and waiting for the cold water to run warm as he pumps soap into his palm.I quietly whimper at the mere thought of his rough hand against my sensitive skin.

I nearly spontaneously combust when his fingers make contact.

Gently, he rubs the fresh tattoo, taking his time. I can’t stop staring at his lips. Or the way his shoulders stretch the sleeves of his shirt within an inch of its life. I bet he’s covered in tattoos. I’d like to discover each and every one. First with my fingertips. Then with my lips.

He wraps my tattoo with saran wrap once again. “Leave this on overnight, okay Princess?”

I nod. Barely.

“Axel?” I don’t realize I’m breathing so heavily until his name comes out in a pant. His gaze fixates on my lace bra, the desire in my core winding up at alarming speeds. I shouldn’t do this. I should just go. But dammit, Iwanthim.

He suddenly steps back, his gaze landing everywhere but on me. “You should wash your shirt before the ink sets any longer.”

“Right.”Are you going to do this or not?

“I’ll grab you a shirt you can wear.”

Not. Definitely not.

And now I’m having full-on conversations with myself. Great.

I slip off the counter and focus on washing the stain in the sink. I stare at the colors mixing in the porcelain bowl because every other thought trying to take up real estate in my brain is dangerous. I would’ve kissed Axel if he’d let me. Hell, I’d have yanked down his zipper and reached my hand inside?—

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