Meghan
March
Beneath This Ink
Releasing:
February 12th,
2015
Blurb:
I’ve always known she was too good
for me, but that never stopped me from wanting her.
And then I finally had her for one
night.
A night I don’t remember.
I figured I’d blown my shot.
But now she’s walked back into my
life, and this time, I have the upper hand. I want my second chance.
Will she be able to see the man beneath
this ink?
Excerpt:
“Con, can you take this walk-in?”
Delilah called from the front of the shop.
I pushed back from
the desk and shoved my hair away from my face. It was too damn long.
I needed to get it cut, but the girl I’d been going to for the last
year had basically fallen onto my cock last week, and I wasn’t
going to be letting her near my jugular with scissors any time soon.
She wasn’t enamored of my, ‘I don’t go there twice unless
there’s something worth going back for’ mentality. I probably
could have phrased it a little nicer, but why give the girl false
hope when I’d all but forgotten her as soon as I’d slid the
condom off my dick? I didn’t have time for bullshit, and I didn’t
like to be misunderstood when I spoke. So I was firmly in the ‘tell
it how it is’ camp. Women didn’t seem to appreciate my particular
brand of honesty. Mostly because it didn’t line up with what they
wanted to hear. Not my problem.
I stood and headed
for the door of the break room. Time to meet my newest walk-in.
If I had to tattoo
one more “YOLO” on some idiot kid, I might hang up my tattoo gun
and call it a day. Thoughts like that made me feel older than
thirty-one.
I scanned the
shop, looking for my next client. If I hadn’t learned a hell of a
long time ago how to lock down my reactions, I might’ve missed a
step.
It was no kid.
And if she wanted
YOLO tattooed on that body, it’d be a crime against nature. Anger
flared within me at the sight of her. I might not remember the night
we’d spent together, but I sure as hell remembered the morning
after when I’d interrupted her escape from my bedroom. We’d
thrown words like grenades, and it was a miracle we’d both walked
away without bloodshed. Even with that memory vividly replaying in my
head, I still had to tell my dick to calm the fuck down.
Vanessa Fucking
Frost was still out of my league. Hell, out of my fucking universe.
She’d been too good for me in high school, she’d been too good
for me two years ago, and as sure as she was standing in my shop
today, she was still too damn good for me. And I bet she’d be the
first person to say it. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d
ended up in my bed that night. Not because my bed didn’t see action
with rich chicks—it saw plenty—but not like her. Classic elegance
like Grace Kelly. Joy Leahy used to make me watch To Catch a Thief
with her, and that’s exactly who Vanessa reminded me of.
Her platinum blond
hair was twisted up into some fancy ass bun, and her tan skirt suit
clung to her curves in all the right places. One perfectly manicured
hand toyed with the gold bracelet on her wrist. My jeans tightened
uncomfortably at the peek of a lacy pink bra from beneath her pink
silk blouse.
My reaction to her
pissed me off.
Do you know what
it’s like to finally get something you’ve always wanted,
but not remember a single fucking detail?
It ate away it me.
The not knowing. Part of me wanted to tell her to get the hell out of
my shop, but the other part of me wanted to drag her upstairs, strip
her naked, and tie her to my bed so this time she couldn’t leave
until I was damn good and ready. Which might be never. And that
thought—that weakness—infuriated me.
“Never thought
I’d see you darken my doorway again. What can I do for you,
princess?” A mocking edge colored my words.
Her nervous
twirling of her bracelet halted, and her blue eyes, several shades
lighter and more vibrant than my own, met mine. Her pink tongue
darted out over her perfectly plump bottom lip slicked with gloss.
This nervous, off-balance look of hers raised all my red flags. I was
used to the quiet, sexy-as-all-hell confidence that had always drawn
me in. At least until she’d opened her mouth that infamous morning
and told me what she’d really thought of me.
“I need a few
moments of your time.”
I raised an
eyebrow. Now that was a new development. She’d never sought me out.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, if you
could spare me five minutes.”
Some of her words
from that morning, which I might as well have tattooed on my skin,
came back to me: Do this again? Are you crazy? I must have been
insane to do this the first time. This can never happen again. And no
one can ever know. No one.
And now she wanted
a favor?
“In this shop,
the only way a woman gets my time is if she’s getting a tattoo, or
is on her knees or her back.” I knew my answer was crude, but that
was what she undoubtedly expected from me. And I hated to disappoint.
A flush of color
hit her cheekbones, and I wondered for a brief second whether she was
remembering what it had been like to be on her knees in front of me.
Fuck. I wish I remembered. Then I could just fucking move on.
I waited for the
clipped go to hell and an abrupt exit. But instead of turning
and walking out, she surprised me.
“A tattoo it is,
then.”
About
Meghan March
Meghan March is a Michigan native who has spent
a good portion of her life buried in a book. Case in point: she read
the entire romance section of her small town public library by age
fourteen. Even after growing up (sort of) and getting a law degree,
she never lost her passion for a great story, twisty plot, epic
romance, and amazing characters. When she’s not writing, she’s
probably reading, target shooting, drooling over fast cars, or
playing with her crazy mutt.
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