Page 181 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Lunch it is. I’ll text you the time and place.”
I want to find somewhere we can talk, really talk, without vanilla ears listening. Logan will probably know somewhere. And if he doesn’t, Emily will probably volunteer their place, which is only about six blocks from Brenna’s shop. Emily will probably volunteer to cater, too. That baby girl is a gift that just keeps on giving.
“You don’t have my number,” she says, with another little flick of her pink tongue over her lower lip. Two lip-licks and she’s got my dick standing at attention.
“Yes, I do. You’re not the only one who asked.”
Her eyes sheen, and she finally lowers them. She tugs her chin away. “Let’s look at this ink.”
I really am embarrassed by it. I’ve got some good tattoos. A portrait of my daughter as a baby on my left arm that captures her better than any picture. The Navy motto and seal down my left thigh that’s still sharp a decade on. But the mermaid is terrible. I got it thirty years ago, the night before I shipped out. I was drunk and I think the tattoo artist might have been, too. It’s faded and the lines have warped as my skin has stretched and contracted over the years. The only saving grace is that it’s on my back so I don’t have to look at it.
She circles around behind me and I feel her fingertips, firm and warm on my skin. Fuck, I want those fingers on my cock.
“You’re right. This is terrible.”
“I know. I’ve been living with it for thirty years.”
She laughs, low and throaty, a sound that shoots straight to my balls. “I’m not sure what’s worse. Your awful judgment in getting it in the first place or keeping it for thirty years.”
“It was a badge of honor. Worst tattoo in the company. But now that I’m out, I’ve got to do something about it.”
I hear the soft click of a smart phone.
“Please tell me you’re not taking pictures for a wall of shame?”
Another low laugh. “No, a picture for reference helps when I’m sketching. How long have you been out?”
“Three months.”
“What brought you to the City?” More clicking. “You don’t sound like a native.”
“I’m a native of nowhere. Citizen of the world.” At her snort, I chuckle. “I’m second-generation Navy. I grew up all over, wherever Pops was stationed. I had a place in Florida for a while, but I never could stand the summers down there. Naomi’s at school in Queens. Logan’s close by—” I trail off. I don’t want her to think I’m rootless, even though I am. “Seemed like a good place to settle. What about you?”
“Like you, citizen of the world.” She moves back around my body. The light’s gone out of her eyes. This is a source of sadness.
I don’t make any jokes and I don’t ask why. Not yet.
“Strangest place you ever lived?”
“Lake Placid. It’s upstate. It was like living on the moon. Except that living on the moon might have been more fun.”
I grin at her. “I wouldn’t mind living on the moon. Can’t be any stranger than living in a sub for six months. So, any chance of fixing my grotesque lapse in judgment?”
The spark returns. “No, nothing I can do about your lack of judgment. But I can fix your tattoo. I’ll do some sketches andbring them to lunch. You can tell me what you like and what you don’t, and I’ll do a final design and text it to you for approval. It’ll probably take three or four hours, so we can do two sessions if pain’s a problem.”
“Pain is never a problem,” I tell her, catching her chin in my hand again, just to feel the softness of her skin under my fingers. “Before I go, show me your favorite tattoo.”
“I like the portrait on your arm the best. Great shading.”
“On you, bold girl.”
The spark softens to a glow. Such a warm glow. A man could bask in that glow and never feel the nip of cold in his bones again.
“It’s on my hip. I’d need to take my pants off.”
“I’m good with that.”
She unbuttons and unzips the dark red leathers she’s wearing and shimmies them down over her sleek hips. Underneath are black, satin panties that tie at each hip with little bow. I want to pull them off with my teeth and lick every inch they’re covering.
