I get dressed and take a taxi to one of the oldest parts of town. Everything around here was built in the 1800s. Most of these buildings used to be boarded up and falling apart. A few years ago, the city paid to have the entire block restored and eventually trendy shops moved in. One of those shops is Savage Tattoos. There’s a vinyl sign in the shape of a dragon covering most of the front window, leaving just enough window space to see the hot tattooed guy working at his station inside.

My heart is racing. I have no idea what to do or say when I get in there. I stand on the sidewalk outside the building like some stalker, staring at the window, trying to figure out what to do. I swear to God I should get all the best friend points for agreeing to complete Kia’s bucket list. There should be medals, and a ceremony…

I take a deep breath. Okay, let’s do this.

I go inside.

What the hell am I doing? That seems to be a reoccurring thought in my head, like a needle stuck on a record. My stomach is in knots. I want to leave and I almost convince myself to do just that. I love you Kia, but I can’t do this. How could she ask me for this favor? She knows how timid I am around hot men. To ask this of me is to take me so far out of my comfort zone that I might as well be on another planet.

Inside the lights are bright. Several artists are at different stations with clients, having conversations and listening to death metal at low volumes. The art on the walls is extraordinary. When I think of tattoo shops, the first thing that comes to mind are skulls and depictions of death. There are plenty of those, of course, but it’s not what I was expecting. It’s not all dark and miserable. There is so much color and technique. The whole place has a vibrant, lively feel to it. And though I’m definitely out of my element in this place with all these tattooed people, I’m not as uncomfortable as I thought I would be.

I’ve never really thought about getting a tattoo before. I was never the rebellious type. But seeing how beautiful the art is, I start to wonder if maybe I’m missing out.

Walking further into the building, I spot him, the guy in the window that Kia and I had giggled about on those drunken nights. He’s even better looking up close while I’m sober. He has a close fade haircut that’s longer on top, a razor-sharp jawline, just enough scruff on his face to give him a sexy, rugged look, and colorful tattoos on his neck and arms—and probably other places, but I can’t see those … yet. If all goes according to plan, I will be seeing them soon. If a hotter guy exists on this planet, I’ve never seen him before.

He’s cleaning off the excess ink from a tattoo he just finished on a man’s forearm. He looks up at me with startling blue eyes and I’m taken aback by the sudden attention. His icy gaze roams from my head to my feet and back up to my face. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking by his expressionless face.

“Sorry, we’re not taking walk-ins right now. We’re booked up for a month,” he says to me. Even his low, gravelly voice is hot. I imagine a voice like that using naughty pillow-talk in bed would be a fun time.

“I’m just looking, thank you,” I say. My own voice sounds as rigid as I feel. My heart is pounding into my ribs. I can’t remember ever being this nervous about confronting a guy before. Then again, I’ve never approached anyone simply with the intention of having sex with them either.

There is a couch and a stack of portfolios of the different artists’ work on a coffee table. I take a seat and sort through them. I find the one with his photo and name on the front: Max Savage. He must be the owner. The name suits him perfectly. He finishes up with his client. I try not to look at him as he walks toward me. From the corner of my eye he’s like a tower. He stands there, imposing, taking up all the air around me, until I look up at him. I swallow, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asks in a deep, playful tone that’s masculine without hitting me over the head with testosterone.

“I don’t know,” I say dumbly. I can’t think straight with him so close to me.

His eyebrows rise. He looks me over. I’m pretty sure he’s judging me right now. “Let me guess … a tramp stamp.”

My disappointment must show on my face. I would never get a tramp stamp—not that there’s anything wrong with them. On the right girl, I’m sure they look great. But I’m not that girl. He smiles like he’s accomplished what he’s set out to do. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. He keeps going. “A butterfly, fairy … no wait, an infinity symbol.”

He’s making fun of me. I’m guessing those kinds of tattoos are typically what girls who look like me get. I guess based on looks alone I’m a typical prissy girl. I’m a cosmetologist so my hair, makeup, and nails are always done, and I buy my clothes at the local mall. So, I guess looks-wise, I’m your all-American girl. It’s probably a running joke in the shop among the snobbish elite in the tattoo world. I guess it’s kind of the same for women who come into the salon where I work who wear their makeup all wrong or who cut their own hair. I don’t make fun of those people, but other girls I work with do. It feels pretty horrible being on the other side of the insults.

Despite his stellar looks, this guy is such an ass. He shows me that annoyingly beautiful smile and I frown.

“In other words, you’re saying I’m basic,” I say.

I really don’t like him. He’s hot as fuck, but what a judgmental jackass. It doesn’t matter. Like Kia said, she’s not asking me to fall in love with him—thank God, because it would never happen. It’s just a hook-up. I’m all for wild, passionate hate sex. Ask any of my ex-boyfriends who I’ve slept with after we broke up.

He shrugs and gives me the most obnoxiously sexy smile I’ve ever seen, his pearly whites revealed behind full lips.

“Is this how you treat all your potential clients?” I ask.

“No, but I have a feeling you’re not here for a tattoo.”

I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’ve been watching me the entire time and haven’t looked at a single photo in my portfolio. That’s not very typical of someone trying to figure out what they want as a tattoo.”

He talks loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Machines mysteriously go quiet, and I have a feeling we have an audience. Looking around I affirm it when the other artists and their clients turn their heads.

“You’re right,” I say, talking quietly and hoping he takes the hint to do the same. “I’m actually here to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

“What’s this about? Am I being audited or something?”

“What? No.”

Am I dressed like a tax collector? I look down at the simple black dress I chose to wear, my sensible heals. My hair is in a bun and I wore my glasses instead of contacts. I guess I do look a bit square today. Probably should’ve worn something that showed more skin if I was planning on asking a stranger to have sex with me. I was too nervous to think about that at the time.

“It’s nothing like that,” I say. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. It won’t take long.”

He rolls his eyes and says, “Follow me.”

God, this guy is definitely single. What a jerk.

He leads me to the back of the shop and out the door into an alley. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shuts the door and locks me out. He doesn’t do that, though. Instead he comes out with me and sits in one of the three chairs surrounding a coffee-can being used as an ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts.

There’s graffiti on the walls. Not like gang tags, but a stunning mural of the cityscape, probably painted by one or more of the artists working at the shop.

He looks at me as though he’d rather be anywhere else right now and sighs. “So, what do you want?”

I’m tempted to walk away. If Kia saw the way this guy was treating me, she would understand.

I take a deep breath. I can’t fail on the first envelope. I have to at least try.

“My best friend died recently.” The words still feel unreal when I say them out loud. They feel unreal even thinking them.

Max’s posture straightens and the smug look on his face slips away into something almost friendly.

I continue. “She has this bucket list that she wanted me to finish for her.” I hesitate. It feels wrong to out her secret but it’s too late now. I can’t bring myself to say the words, so I hand him the envelope.

He reads it, eyebrows shooting up. He flips the note over and reads the back, then bursts out in laughter.

“Is this for real?” he asks.

“Yep. There’s a whole box full of these envelopes and I have to complete one task in order to move on to the next. This is the first.”

The smooth skin of his neck starts to look blotchy. Is he blushing? It’s hard to tell with all the tattoos. He stares down at the note, avoiding eye contact. Whatever self-assurance he seemed to have an abundance of is no longer there, replaced by something reminiscent of shyness.

“Maybe this isn’t even about me,” he says. “There are other artists working here.”

But he’s the only one with a window seat, and the only one I remember fawning over in the bar that night.

“Trust me, it’s you,” I say.

That shy smile is back and he laughs again, a wonderfully deep sound.

“Look,” I say, “I understand if you don’t want—”

“I’ll do it,” he says.

My stomach drops as though I’m freefalling from the tallest roller coaster in the world. From the way he treated me when I first walked into his shop, I thought for sure he wouldn’t be interested.

“You will?” I ask, skeptical.

He shrugs and that cocky smile returns. “Sure. Why not?”

“Okay. When?”

He looks at his watch. “I have some time right now between clients.”

My stomach continues to plummet, twisting and turning in a downward spiral. “Wait, right now?”

I’m not ready. I mean, I haven’t …

Actually, I can’t think of a reason why not right now. I’ve showered and all the necessary parts are landscaped. I have condoms in my purse that aren’t too terribly old. I can’t think of a single reason why not—unless he means to do it right here in this alley, which would only happen if it were on Kia’s bucket list, which, thankfully, it’s not.

“Your place or mine?” he asks.

“Um, where do you live?” I ask.

He points up above the shop.

Shit. That doesn’t even give me the drive-time to pull myself together and come to grips with the fact that this is definitely happening right now. But my place is a mess and it’s all the way across town.

“Yours, I guess,” I say.

He leads the way as we head upstairs and come to a barn-looking door on a track. He slides it open. It’s a huge space taking up the entire second story of the building. For the most part, it’s how I expected it to look. An open floor plan so you can see the living room and kitchen. There are other rustic-looking barn doors which I’m guessing are the bedrooms. What a cool place. It’s full of art and sculptures, mismatched furniture, quirky décor, guitars, painted skateboard decks, and a TV as big as the wall with every video game console you can imagine. A total bachelor pad, though it’s cleaner than I imagined it would be. He’s very tidy. From what I can tell by one of the partially opened doors, his bed is even made.

“Are we doing this with clothes on?” he asks as I stand there, taking in everything.

“Oh, um, no. I guess not,” I say.

His playful smile turns into something hungry. He slowly makes his way toward me, stalking me as though I were his prey. I tremble, but not out of fear. I realize suddenly just how much I want this. He reaches for the buttons of my dress. He takes his time undoing them, one by one. It slips off my shoulders, down my hips, and pools on the floor at my feet, leaving me in my black panties and bra. I’m glad to have at least worn a matching set, and a nice one at that.

He takes in all my curves and trails his finger lightly along the skin on my stomach. I shiver, covered in goosebumps.

Taking me by the hand, he pulls me into a kiss. First kisses can often be awkward. There’s a practice-makes-perfect nuance that comes with time. You have to learn each other’s technique, find your rhythm. At least that’s how it has been for me with past experiences. Not with Max. Our kiss is as fluid as if it had been choreographed, as if we’ve had years of practice. Damn, he’s good at it. His lips are soft, but demanding. With his teeth, he nibbles and bites my bottom lip, then soothes it with the tip of his warm, wet tongue. My breathing comes faster. Both of his hands are on me now. One is tangled in my hair, holding me in place while the other explores, moving further down my belly. He toys around the edge of my belly button and slowly makes his way down to the waistband of my panties. His fingers slip beneath the elastic.

Holy shit, this is happening. Of course, that was the plan all along, but I just assumed something would get in the way: he’d change his mind, or wouldn’t be into it, or maybe some kind of divine intervention—something.

But no. This is not a drill. It’s really fucking happening and my body is thanking the hell out of Kia right about now. He hasn’t even touched me in any real sexual way yet and already my panties are soaked through. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this and he may have just woken a sleeping giant that has been lying dormant inside of me.

I grab the hem of his shirt and lift it over his head, marveling at this gorgeous man with a body that looks as though it’s been forged out of steel. His skin is sun-kissed and smooth, abs ridged with hard muscle. I want to lick every inch of him.

He kisses me again. Soon it becomes untamable. Our bodies come together, heated and angry. Like I said, hate sex is the best.

He lays me on the couch and strips off my panties and bra. His tongue rolls lazy circles around my hard nipple. He sucks it into his mouth, then moves to the other, giving it a proper amount of attention. This seems to get him really worked up. He kisses each part of my body, pausing in this frenzy to take in the whole picture. Liking what he sees, he lets out a growl of approval and moves his head between my legs. My last boyfriend hated going down on me so he never did it. I’m not used to someone’s face being in that area and I feel a little panicked. Max, on the other hand, seems to be starving for it. He pushes my knees to my chest then spreads them apart so that I’m fully exposed to him. There’s nothing of me that he can’t see. Normally I’m far too self-conscious for this kind of thing during a first encounter, but I want it so bad right now that I’m open to anything—literally.

“You’re so wet,” he says as he strokes my outer lips with his fingers.

I close my eyes, revel in the feel of it, how his touch kind of tickles and covers me in goosebumps. Every part of me begs to be entered, but I also like the way he teases me.

He goes from softly touching the skin to massaging it. He’s driving me crazy and I can feel myself getting even wetter to the point where I’m dripping. It’s almost painful how much I want him right now. The places where he was massaging, he starts to nibble on with the tips of his teeth, then sucks the skin into his mouth. He sucks on it for a while then pulls away with a pop. Feels like all the blood in my body has settled into that one part and I’m living for it. That’s when his tongue finally touches my clit for the first time and nearly sends me out of my mind. I try not to be loud; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he’s having on me. He was such a dick when we met, so cocky and unbearable. He wasn’t supposed to be this good. People with attitude problems are usually trying to overcompensate for something. Apparently, not Max. Maybe he’s so good with his mouth because he has to compensate for something else being too small. I guess we’ll see.

He has my whole clit in his mouth now, nursing on it like he did my nipple and suddenly my brain goes numb and empty, and my mouth opens and I’m moaning, begging for him not to stop. And like the gentleman he definitely isn’t, he stops.

“No! Why are you stopping?” I ask, raising my head off the couch cushion to look down at the amazing, infuriating creature between my legs.

That cocky smile is back. “I thought I’d make you beg for it a little.”

“This is me begging for it.”

“Not good enough.”

His fingers spread the wetness around, down the crack of my ass, playing with my back entrance without actually entering. Right now, I would let him. I’d let him do anything to me.

I’m panting, aching to have his fingers inside me to the point where it literally hurts; the female equivalent to blue balls, but in the best way possible. I don’t mind a little pain in bed as long as the reward for enduring it is worth it in the end.

“Please,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

His smile widens until he’s showing off those pretty white teeth of his. Then two of his fingers slip inside of me. I gasp and spread myself further apart for him so that he can go as deep as the length of his fingers will allow, which are pretty long. At first, he’s just sliding in and out, and my pussy is making sexy squelching sounds, but then he hooks them and my eyes roll back as he massages my g-spot.

My legs start to tremble. Seeing the quake in my body, he starts to finger-fuck me at break-neck speed. My head is hitting the back of the firm couch, but I don’t care. I can’t even feel it. The entire couch is creaking and whining as if it were having its own orgasm. I’m sure everyone downstairs in the tattoo shop is getting an earful, but again, I don’t care.

My orgasm explodes like a bomb and it destroys me. I scream, a short burst of sound, unable to help myself, but it soon fades into a long grown as the last of the quake leaves my body and I’m nothing more than a puddle on the cushions

He doesn’t allow me to recover. Instead, he strips off his clothes and puts a condom on so fast, if I blinked I might have missed it. I barely get to inspect the goods before he pushes into me. I cry out. Even after being stretched and punished by his fingers, there’s still enough feeling there to know this guy is no slouch in the size department. His horrible attitude wasn’t overcompensating for anything after all.

He pushes all the way into me until there’s nowhere left to go. It’s the most satisfying, full feeling. As he slides in and out of me, he takes turns between sucking my nipples and kissing my lips. When he holds my face in his hands and stares into my eyes, something changes. I wouldn’t call it a connection, really, but that infuriating cockiness is gone. It goes from a hate-fuck to just a really passionate hook-up.

He kisses me gently on the lips and the tip of my nose. Really, how can I hate him after that? This goes on for the longest time, and for a while it feels as though we’re making love. But I know that’s not what this is. I don’t know this man. We just met. Whatever this is, it’s something else. Whatever this is, I can’t get enough.

This slow, sweet sex starts to get heated again as he thrusts faster. He pulls out suddenly and rolls me onto my stomach. With my face in one of the decorative pillows with a picture of an anchor on it—that smells wonderful, by the way—he slams into me from behind and I scream out in pleasure. He thrusts so hard I can feel it in every part of my body. I push back into him, wanting more.

“You’re a greedy little girl, aren’t you?” he says, toying with me again, acting like he’s about to pull out.

He kisses my back, and licks his way up my spine until his warm lips are on my ear and I can feel his breath. “You want more, don’t you?” he says.

Hardly able to get words out, I say, “I want it all.”

He laughs a quiet, lust-filled sound and slams into me again. Over and over until I’m screaming for it, taking inch by delicious inch, begging him not to stop as a second orgasm takes hold. This time I’m not able to recover as quickly. My knees are shaking, my energy spent. When it finally rolls away, I’m lying there, useless. Max has to do all the work. He rolls me onto my side and enters me from behind. He squeezes my breasts and pinches my nipples.

“You okay?” he asks playfully.

I’m more than okay. I’m having sex with a man I thought I could only have in my dreams, and I just had the two best orgasms of my life.

“I want more,” I say.

He’s more than willing to oblige. It’s as though he has an endless supply of energy, because before I know it, he’s pounding away at me again, keeping a steady, furious pace that no human man could keep for such a long time. It’s that constant rhythm that allows me a third orgasm. Though not as intense as the first two, it’s just as satisfying. This time when I come, so does he. I feel him tense up. His hands clutch my hips as though he’s afraid I’ll try to escape, and he bites down on my shoulder and lets out a low, animalistic sound as he shoots his load.

I look over my shoulder and watch him as he pulls out, only half-hard now but still hung like a giant, and takes off the condom. His body shimmers with sweat, every muscle wound tight like a body builder after a workout. He stares at me too, giving me lingering, confusing looks. I’m instantly self-conscious again. We share a towel and he sits on the couch beside me, hands behind his head. I’m not sure what to do, but I assume leaving is probably the answer since he was squeezing me in between clients and I don’t want to overstay my welcome and make things weird. I can’t imagine a scenario more awkward than getting kicked out of some guy’s apartment after sex. I am not about that.

I get up and start to put my clothes back on.

“You’re going to have sex and leave?” he says.

Where the hell is my bra? I search the room. Eventually I find it slung over the back of a chair.

“That’s how these things go, don’t they?”

“I feel so cheap,” he says in a playful tone.

I continue to put my clothes on.

“Stay,” he says, more serious now. “Talk to me for a minute.”

I turn to look at him. His cheeks are flushed from exertion and there’s a beautiful after-sex glow about him.

He thinks I’m basic, and this was just a tick off Kia’s bucket list. I should get up and walk out and move on to envelope two, but, against all the little alarms going off in my head, I might not want to leave. I stay anyway. Curling up next to him, I look at the ceiling.

“After sex, I usually like to learn a girl’s name,” he says.

“Oh, is that how that usually goes?” I say.

I fight the urge to laugh. I can’t believe I just had sex with a guy without him knowing my name first. Kia has really taken me above and beyond my comfort zone.

“So … this crazy bucket list. Am I the first of the many guys you’ll be sleeping with?” he asks.

Is he? Kia wasn’t the type of girl to fool around with a bunch of guys, unless that was a secret dream of hers all along. I doubt it though. But I can’t even start to imagine what will come next.

“I’m not sure, but now I’ll be able to open the next envelope.”

He looks proud of himself. “Glad I could help.”

We’re sitting there in awkward silence, both of us looking up at the textured ceiling when he asks, “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your friend?”

The question takes me by surprise. I’m used to the people around me already knowing. I’d known Kia my whole life and she was always intermittently sick. I would have to take time off work during the bad times, so everyone at beauty school or work knew about it. I never really got close enough to a guy to have this conversation and I’m surprised how much it hurts to bring it up. I thought I was over this part, but I guess not.

“She had a bad heart, a genetic disorder.”

He turns to face me. I can feel him staring as if waiting for me to break down. As much as I want to, I won’t do it. I’ve done it a million times, I’m all out of tears. When I think of her I try to remember the good times so the bad don’t take over.

He caresses my arm—not a move I was expecting. It’s compassionate and sweet, and feels genuinely sincere. “I’m sorry.”

I nod because I don’t know what else to do. I wasn’t expecting him to want to talk, or to be kind when hearing about my best friend. He’s nothing like I expected. Where’s that over-confident asshole I met downstairs?

I have to go. If I don’t leave now, he’ll get under my skin and I’ll be stuck with the “What If’s.” What if he’s actually a good person and only comes off as an asshole? What if—

Stop.

I sit up and say, “I have to go.”

He reaches for my arm, but I stand up before he can take it. “No round two?” he says with a lazy smile.

Round two sounds amazing, and that body … it’s like something out of a painting. Something sculpted by an Italian master. I could probably go for a second round.

Nope. Not going to happen.

I get dressed. “I have things I need to do.”

He laughs.

“What’s funny?” I ask as I slip on my shoes.

“Ditching after a one-night stand is usually the man’s move.”

“Looks like I’m getting off easy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, you did get off pretty easy.”

I smile. He’s right. He knew exactly what he was doing and I loved every minute of it.

“Okay, well, bye,” I say.

He opens his mouth like he might tell me not to leave again, but I’m gone before he gets a chance.