Hector’s brows went up and I smiled at him.
“That must be what Lee was talking about,” I informed him. “He didn’t think it was a good idea. Neither did Eddie. Or Hank, for that matter. Tex thinks I’m a nut. Duke and Mace liked it, though, and the girls thought it was aces. So do I. Look!”
I bent over and peeled the bandage away, exposing the brand new tattoo, it and my skin glistening with tattoo goo.
It was a black panther, fierce, graceful and snarling.
I loved it.
“It’s a black panther,” I informed Hector unnecessarily as his hands were still framing it, his body was leaned slightly to the side, his head cocked and his eyes were locked on my hip. “I thought my idea was lame at first. But I couldn’t think of anything else that represented you.” I noticed his head jerk and his eyes slice to me but I didn’t process it, I kept talking, “Then I told the artist guy about you, that you had black hair and black eyes that could go really intense and you were a badass and I liked the way you moved, graceful and in control, like a cat. He sketched that and me and all the girls, even Shirleen, thought it was perfect, so, I said –”
I stopped talking because Hector’s hands moved away from my hip and they closed around my waist, tight. So tight, his fingers were digging in and that got my attention.
He’d straightened and those black eyes I told the tattoo artist about were intense, beyond intense, they were burning right into me.
“How fucked up are you?” he asked.
I thought this was a strange question so my head tilted to the side and I asked back, “What?”
He let me go but only so he could pull off his t-shirt and he did this fast.
At the sight of his chest, my breath left me in a whoosh.
“How fucked up are you?” he repeated, unclipped his gun from his belt and threw it on the nightstand, all the while looking at me. “Sadie, fucked up. Shitfaced. Trashed. Loaded. Drunk. How fucked up are you?”
I was still confused, watching him, feeling his heat, his intensity and something hungry about him. Seriously hungry. Therefore, I was watching him, confused, yet getting turned on at the same time.
Way turned on.
He leaned down and pulled off his boots, sending them, in turn, sailing across the room.
Then he hands came back to me, his thumbs went into my underwear, hooking into the sides, then he shoved them down until they fell to my ankles.
Oh my God.
Did he just do that?
“Sadie, answer me.”
“Um, on a scale of one to ten?” I asked, unsure how to answer, unsure what to do, not even sure I still remembered how to breathe.
He lifted me up, I let out a surprised gasp and my arms and legs wrapped around him.
“What are you doing?” I cried.
“You put my mark on you. To show my appreciation, I’m gonna fuck you until you scream my name and I wanna make sure you remember it. Now, how fuckin’ drunk are you?”
My heart was beating wildly, my belly had melted to oblivion and I was pretty certain sure I’d had a mini-orgasm.
What I wasn’t was drunk, not anymore.
“I’m not drunk anymore.”
“Good.” He put a knee to the bed but didn’t put me down. “Now, mamita, where the tat is, I can’t be on top so you got two choices, either you ride me or I get creative. Your choice but chose now.”
I swallowed.
“Hector –” I started.
He cut me off, “Now.”
Oh my.
He meant business.
And I liked his business.
So, I whispered, “Creative.”
He grinned, slow and sweet.
Then he got creative.
Chapter Nineteen
Ibuprofen and Midol
Sadie
“Preciosa, wake up.”
My eyes opened and I saw Hector sitting on the side of the bed. He had on jeans and a tight-fitting, navy t-shirt and he looked awake and alert.
I glanced at him through slitted eyes.
He had worked last night, late, then he’d vigorously shown his appreciation for my tattoo just like he said he would.
And, really, how bizarre was that? It was my tattoo but apparently Hector was more excited about it than I was, as in loads more in a macho-man, badass, fuck me until I screamed his name type of way, of course.
Though, I didn’t scream his name when he made me come but I gasped it and I did this loud.
Nevertheless, he hadn’t tied one on last night, mixing margaritas with Fat Tires and tequila shots. He was likely not hungover like I knew I was at that very moment. He was not having a life filled with daily multiple-traumas. And lastly, he didn’t have an opening at his gallery tomorrow night.
So he could be awake and alert on a Sunday morning.
I was hungover. I felt it in my stomach and my head, so I was going to sleep.
To communicate all of that, I mumbled, “Sleep.” Then turned and burrowed into the pillows.