The next day I’m on a plane with Shade to Seattle.
Alone.
Just the two of us in first class.
You wouldn’t believe what we talk about on the plane to Seattle. Or, maybe you can. You know us pretty well by now.
About halfway through the flight, we start talking about piercings. Probably because Shade’s been playing with his lip ring for the last half hour and I can’t stop watching. It’s sexy as fuck.
“So when did you get your clit pierced?”
“When I was sixteen.”
He smiles, looks between my legs, then swallows and shifts in the seat next to me, his body leaning toward mine. We’re sharing body heat now. And our breathing, take a look. We’re both hot and bothered.
“Can I see?”
“No.”
Soft laughter rolls through him. “Why not?”
“Do you have piercings?” Jesus Christ, why am I doing this? I know the piercing he has. Nipples. Anti-tragus, vertical labret, tongue, lip, dick. . . . Gah! Stop. Just stop.
“Aside from my lip, nose, tongue, nipples, and ears?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a moment there. Do you see it? It’s when he slides his sunglasses down his nose and looks at me over the top, searching my eyes like he can’t decide what he’s going to do next.
He leans over and whispers, “My dick is pierced.” Then he pulls back. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Gulp.
Goddamn it. Now I’m sweating. Between my legs. And everywhere else for that matter.
I ignore it completely and go with, “When did you get your tongue pierced?” And what I really mean is dick pierced, but I don’t ask.
“Thirteen,” he says, chuckling around the words. His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and then he pushes the barbell in his tongue out.
Goddamn.
“That’s young.”
“I suppose.”
He flashes me a devilish grin, notably straightening his posture. “What made you pierce your clit?”
Of course he’s curious about that. Most men are. “Dated a guy who owned a tattoo parlor when I was in high school. I’d never let him tattoo me, but the crazy bastard had a thing for making me bleed. Got off on it I think. Started with my belly button, then nipples and finally, clit.”
He’s quiet, an emotion I’m not familiar with tightens his jaw and digs at his brow. “And you let him?”
“Yeah, didn’t know any better. I was sixteen, mom didn’t give a fuck, so I just sort of did what I did. I don’t regret them because I enjoy the piercings.” My breathing deepens, my body giving away what I’m trying to hide from him.
“Why wouldn’t you let him tattoo you?”
It’s a loaded question and he knows it. It’s why he asked. “Because he wanted to tattoo his name on me, but also because it’s permanent and I’ve yet to find anything I want permanently tattooed on me.”
“I kind of like that you don’t have any.”
My brow raises and curves. “I would think you’d like a woman covered in body art like yourself,” I note, waiting for his reaction.
“Don’t get me wrong, I think tattoos are hot on women, but a blank canvas can be sexy too. I like the idea of being the darkness to her purity.”
Breathe, Scarlet. Breathe! “What made you get so many?”
Shade glances down at his arms and hands and the art displayed on them. “I started young. Like sixteen. We all hung out at this tattoo joint in Venice Beach with most of the freestyle and BMX guys, and it just sort of became a thing. We expressed ourselves creatively through our riding, and it carried over into body art.”
“What’s your favorite one?”
He steals a sideways glance at me and drags a hand through his hair. “The memento mori skull on my back.”
“What does it mean?”
“Memento mori. . . it’s Latin for remember death.”
“And that’s for?”
His face adapts a grave edge and he leans in again, his words meant for only me, and I kind of appreciate that. “It was my first tattoo.” He pauses and draws in a deep breath and blows it out slowly with a subtle shake of his head, the weariness for telling me something so personal eases from his face. “It’s um, well, it’s a reminder of my dad and everything in life. Tomorrow you might die. There are times when I’ve been depressed or whatever, but what gives you pleasure?” He smirks; it’s meant to be dirty in a sense, but his words are so much more than anything sexual. He’s giving me a piece of himself, his mystery deepening. “What defines you? When you’re desperate, broken, finished. . . that’s the shit that defines you. When you realize you’re powerless, you understand nothing in life is yours. It’s given to you, and then eventually, it’s gone. Life is what you make of it.”
“Why the shades on it?”
“Because it defines me, don’t you think?”
I nod, and I think the conversation might be getting too serious for him because he leans in again, our shoulders bumping. “So this clit piercing. . . you get off on it?”
My heart jumps when his hand that was in his lap moves to my knee, his hooded eyes enough to make me squirm. My knees shake. I straighten my posture and try to appear confident when I reply with, “Maybe.”
His left hand that’s on the arm of the seat moves to his lap, over his cock that I can clearly see straining through his shorts. He waits, pauses, and then when my stare drops, he palms his hard length, lifting his hips into his hand.
With his lips near my ear, he whispers, “Have you ever fucked a guy with a pierced dick?”
I nod, unable to reply, my face feeling like it’s literally on fucking fire now and my breathing? Out of control.
And then I decide that I can’t be the only one this bothered. It’s time to make him squirm a little. “What about you? Ever fucked a girl with her clit pierced?”
He nods and again, his smile curves his lips, but he doesn’t lift his shades for me. “I prefer them, actually.”
I reach for his sunglasses, and he lets me, but I don’t take them off. I nudge them lower so I can see his eyes when I ask, “Why?”
His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing on mine like a predator. “Because I like a girl who’s not afraid of pain with her pleasure.”
Fuuuuuuuuuck!
Half tempted to straddle him, I twist in my seat, his hand falling from my knee in the process. “You have to stop.”
He raises a brow and rights his sunglasses. “Stop what?”
I motion between us. “Talking like this.”
“Why?” he breathes out in a whisper that’s gravelly and sexy as hell.
“Because for one, I’m wet now. And two, you’re my boss and we’ve discussed this. We can’t do this, and we’re friends now, remember?”
“I remember.” He nods. “But I can’t help it. I want to see this clit piercing.”
“How bad?” Goddamn it, Scar. Shut the fuck up!
“So bad that I’ll probably have to head to the bathroom before the end of the flight and take care of a problem you once again created.” He leans in again, this time closer, and his lips touch the curve of my neck and part over my skin. “I want you so fucking bad it’s all I think about.”
“Me too,” I whisper and then slap my hand over my mouth.
Of all the fucking luck.
I can feel his lips pull into a grin. “Is that so?”
With a heavy sigh, I draw back and push him into to his own seat. “Okay, boy. Stop. We’re getting in deep here.”
“Goddamn.” He laughs. “I’d like to be deep inside of you.”
This trip is going to be a disaster. Worse than those damn catacombs. I’m sure of it.