Inked Destiny

“Got any suggestions about what she might like?” Quinn asked.

“Come with me.”

He followed Jahna to the stairwell. She freed Versace when he struggled in her arms, indicating his desire to see what was happening downstairs.

“Mom, can I show Quinn your jewelry?”

“Make it quick. The table needs to be set.”

“Okay.” She turned to Quinn. “There is a price for this consultation, you know.”

“My sister the shark.”

She touched the side of her head. “I will be working up here while you set the table.”

“Ever heard of multitasking?”

“Ever hear of prioritizing? Christmas is not that far away.”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll do the heavy lifting while you think.”

“So not funny.”

He laughed and followed her to the master bedroom. There were several old-fashioned jewelry boxes on the dresser, yard sale finds his father had restored.

Jahna went to the one at the far right, lifting the lid and filling the room with the sound of music. “These are her best rings. If you’re looking for the cheapest option, we could go with turquoise and silver. She doesn’t have anything like that.”

“Say money is no object.”

“As if.”

“So young. So cynical.”

Jahna shot him a scowl, ruined by a giggle an instant later. “I am trying to help you.”

She dropped the lid, silencing the music. “Okay. Real deal here. While you were gone Mom inherited an amazing necklace. I’m thinking a companion piece to it, probably a bracelet and definitely some earrings.”

Instead of opening a second jewelry box, she pulled the top dresser drawer out and stepped away. The sparkle and glitter grabbed his attention and held it. But it was only a short burst of infatuation lasting until she said, “Guess which one.” Causing his eyes to seek and find, and the moment he did, he caught himself wanting to steal it.

Jesus! Where did that come from?

“This one,” Jahna said, exasperation in her voice as she picked it up. He retreated when she held it out to him, sweat breaking out on his skin at just how loud, Mine, Mine, Mine pounded through his head like it’d become his heartbeat

What the hell was wrong with him?

“A companion piece sounds great,” he said, backing away another couple of steps. “I better get those dishes out.”

He turned and fled.

* * *

You got any shit left?” Puppy asked.

Sleepy glanced at the empty baggie next to the pipe. “Not right now. Maybe later. Let’s go over to Rosena’s place. I tell her you’re with me, maybe you’ll get a little pussy.”

Puppy bounded out of his chair like a starving mutt, then slouched, pretending it was no big deal to fuck Rosena. Sleepy laughed, feeling good.

His cell rang just as he got to his car. Drooler. “Yo, homie!”

“Can’t talk man, my uncle’s on the warpath. I’m sending you a picture from the newspaper in the office. If something is going down, text me. I’ll say I forgot I’m supposed to meet up with my probation officer. Later, ese.”

The buzz deserted Sleepy when he saw the picture. The guy they were supposed to off was standing next to Etain. A mamacita like that wasn’t one to forget, and the two of them were in front of the shelter where Justine worked.

Motherfuck. There was no tattoo book. That was bullshit.

Sleepy slammed his hand on the car roof. Then hit it again, putting a dent in it.

He’d been right. That Irish pendejo had made Lucky rat before killing him. Now he was going to return the favor.

“Change of plans. You’re going to check out a place called Stylin’ Ink and see who’s there.” He tilted the phone so Puppy could look at the picture Drooler had just sent then flicked it back to the photo of Derrick. “One of these three people is going to talk. They’re going to tell us what went down with Lucky and where his body is. Then they’re going to die.”

Twenty-one

Etain stood naked in front of the mirror that could be so much more than a mirror. The outfit she’d selected was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair despite its being every bit as expensive as the dress Eamon had produced the last time she was in his suite at Aesirs.

“You’re sure a do-over is necessary?” she asked, her heart imitating surf pounding against the shore.

Eamon stepped behind her, bare-chested and barefoot, the ink on his arms drawing her attention and banishing trepidation with a fierce surge of satisfaction.

“A do-over is definitely required,” he murmured, hands cupping her breasts so they filled instantly with heat and need. “What is that saying you’re so fond of?”

Tormenting lips captured an earlobe and sucked as fingers took possession of her nipples to tug and twist and squeeze, rendering her incapable of considering his question under the onslaught of pleasure.

She closed her eyes on a moan of surrender. His hands stilled. He released her earlobe.

“Watch or I won’t continue. Isn’t that what I was forced to do when we were here last?”

“Payback is hell,” she said on a husky laugh. “Is that the phrase you’re looking for?”

She lifted her arms and reached behind her to entwine her fingers in his hair, the gesture thrusting her breasts harder against his hands, a spellbinding erotic scene caught in the mirror. “I’m not sure this qualifies as hell. And you were the one playing hard to get that night.”

Her channel clenched as she remembered his hunger and the heat of his gaze as she touched herself in the shower, as she made herself come while he watched.

She ground bare buttocks against his trouser-covered erection and watched his face go taut. She was already flushed and swollen and slick, her cunt lips parted in invitation. She lowered her lashes in defiance and challenge, rubbing against the hard ridge of his erection. “Apparently playing hard to get is a game you enjoy. It’s a good thing you favor dark pants.”

Eamon’s fingers tightened on her nipples as need pooled in his testicles and became a burning, pulsing demand in his cock. His mistake, in starting this, when he knew just how easily her actions created a fire in him that would only be temporarily quenched by the thrust and retreat and mindless release that came with taking her.

She was as powerful as any of the multitude of sirens who’d once called this world home, before technology made it more difficult to lure sailors to their deaths in a great sacrifice of bodies to the sea. He wondered just what he might sacrifice to keep her, what he might do if magic got the upper hand and killing her became the wiser action.

He abandoned a breast, his hand descending in a slow glide over smooth flesh and sleek muscle. Her lips parted on a low moan, tongue darting out to moisten them in carnal invitation and a command that nearly rushed him to his destination. He resisted, measuring this moment against the memory of her in the shower, tormenting him with the caress of feminine hands to a feminine body, with the slick plunge of fingers into sultry depths and