Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) Read online

  “Wow,” she said. “Look at that.”

  “Are you pleased?”

  “Yes, very,” she said. “At this rate, I’ll be buying you bagels for breakfast in no time.”

  Walsh turned toward her then. “Unfortunately, this is about all you can do today. We’ll schedule you a proper appointment sometime next week so your skin has time to heal.”

  “Next week? Why can’t we continue? I’m paying you good money to do a job, Walsh.”

  “Correction. You paid me to open my shop in the middle of the night. Your body can’t handle a full back tat in one sitting. Nobody can.”

  Bridget fixed her eyes on him. She was disappointed, yes, but she also didn’t want to leave. Not just yet.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to kiss you,” he said.

  Her heart jumped. She opened her mouth as if to protest, and shut it again. The way he looked at her, burning a deep hole with his eyes, made her restless. This was why she was here, wasn’t it? She wanted to feel, and forget, and live a life away from the sterility and order of the FBI.

  She bit her lip. Her cheeks flushed, and the smile that crept across her lips was impossible to hide from him. She felt her nipples harden under the thin cotton robe. She played with the hem of the fabric before sweeping her fingers to her chest and divided the folds that covered her.

  The robe slipped to the floor.

  "Then kiss me," she said.

  Three

  Walsh's cock throbbed. The way she said it, then kiss me, burned through him. Without hesitation, he grabbed her around the waist and yanked their bodies together. He crushed his lips against hers and breathed in her scent. He hungrily explored her nakedness until his hands found purchase around her smooth, tight ass. He squeezed and she let out a long, heavy sigh, encouraging him. She gasped between short darts of tongue, teasing him with her mouth. Her hand then slid from his chest to rest on his crotch. She stroked him outside his jeans, taking in his shape and size. He moaned in her ear as she shoved her hand inside his jeans and pumped his length. If she kept that up, she was going to undo him before too long, and that wouldn’t have made a good first impression, he was sure of it.

  “Let’s go my office,” he whispered.

  Her hand stopped. She backed up until her naked ass touched the tattoo chair. “This will do fine,” she said as a sultry smile washed across her face. Her silky blonde hair hung tasseled, falling just below her ample breasts, and it drove him wild.

  “My lucky day.” Walsh undid his jeans and stepped out of the denim heap that slid to the floor. He then gathered that long hair of hers in a loose grip at the back of her head. She sighed with approval. His other hand trailed down her breasts. He squeezed one nipple, then the other, both responding to his touch. His hand then slid down her flat navel until he reached the moistened folds between her legs. He found her most sensitive spot with ease and massaged it with soft circles. She moaned and hissed with pleasure. He watched her beautiful face as she writhed against his hard working fingers. Then decidedly, as if taking control, she smacked his hand away.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  She backed him up, and spun around so that he was now leaning against the chair. She then fell to her knees.

  She licked his swollen head and a deep gasp filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled before she drank the entire length of his throbbing shaft. She plunged her head deep on to his cock. One. Two. Three, he counted. So deep that Walsh feared for her. She released him and teased the swollen head before stroking him, like a piston, with her eager mouth.

  “Feel so good,” he hissed.

  Bridget stood, her green eyes boring into him: raw, hot, and very much in control. “Tell me,” she said, and took to her knees again. One hand rested on his rock hard abs while the other stroked his cock. “Tell me how it feels, Walsh.”

  He gathered her hair in his fist and watched as his cock slowly disappeared into her hot mouth. “Watching you suck me off,” Walsh said, throaty and low-pitched. “It makes me want to knock the bottom out of you.”

  Her head moved faster now, taking every inch of him at a feverish pace. What was she trying to do, finish him off right then and there? The faster she went, the more the pressure built. Soon he would lose control.

  “No,” he said and withdrew himself from her mouth. “Not yet.”

  She smiled up at him and stood up. “As you wish,” she said.

  Without hesitation, he scooped her up and laid her down on the chair. A soft squeal of pain escaped her lips as the leather touched her newly tattooed flesh.

  “On second thought,” he said, and raised her up again. With bodies intertwined, Walsh lowered them to the hardwood floor. His back would ache tomorrow, but tonight he didn’t give a fuck. Bridget squealed with laughter when his ass made a contact slap. With her legs hugging his body, she straddled him.

  With a gentle nudge, he guided her to his face. He gripped her buttocks firmly, and clamped down on her soft wet folds, licking until they parted for him. Sweet and moist, she even tasted beautiful. Bridget hissed as his tongue explored her, devouring her with his mouth, licking and sucking and caressing her softness until she squirmed and moaned with pleasure. Soon, her breath quickened. She bucked her hips in time with his gyrating tongue, greedy for a blissful release. Working his mouth, rhythmically sucking her clit and lapping at her opening, his cock throbbed as an orgasm ripped through her gorgeous little body.

  Like a feral animal, she needed no time to recover. Scooting her luscious ass backward until her crotch touched the tip of his cock, she asked in a breathy, hungry voice, “Are you ready for me, Walsh?”

  “Can’t you tell?” he said with a sly smile.

  With her hand, Bridget gently guided him into her. She gasped as she lowered herself down, inch by inch. Her hips pumped. She rode him, rising and falling, and closed her eyes as her pert breasts moved to her rhythm. He reached up and gripped them, squeezing the flesh and pinching her nipples until she gasped. She rode him until she stiffened and cried out. When she began to buck and convulse, Walsh took charge. He heaved his hips upward, bouncing her on his cock, and watched as she pinched her own nipples as she rode.

  “Yes. Fuck me!” she cried out. “Faster. Don’t stop. Faster.”

  Bridget was his. Panting and gasping, she arched her back and was lost in her own perfect moment. With one jarring thrust, he was also lost, and found, inside her tight, hot pussy.

  Bridget collapsed on top of him and their chests heaved in unison. She moved off him suddenly and rolled to the floor. He wanted to make her comfortable; he knew the ink on her back was raw and sore, but she was disinterested in his concern.

  “Do you want to move to the couch?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  The space between them filled with heavy silence. He wanted to know everything about her; where she was from, what she liked, but most of all, he wanted to know why she happened upon his shop in the dead of night.

  “How’s the ink feel?” he asked.

  “A little sore and scratchy. Is that normal?”

  Walsh chuckled. “Yeah. In a few days, it should stop.”

  Something stirred inside him. In that moment he realized that since she had come into the shop, his thoughts of The Blue Woman had ceased. Was that all it took? A good lay? Something pulled at his chest. Without thinking, he cleared his throat. "That drawing you were looking at, the one in the window?"

  “Yes, what about it?”

  Her back was to him now. He wished she would turn so he could look at her and tell her what he has never told anyone before. He listened to her breathe. "I see it everywhere: in my sleep, during the day, everywhere, I see The Blue Woman.”

  “The Blue Woman?” Bridget asked.

  “That’s what I call her, because of the way her dark hair shines blue in the moonlight.”

  Bridget rolled over and faced him, her blonde hair cascading around her bare breasts. It made hi
m want her all over again.

  “I can see her as clear as I can see you lying next to me. I can see the swords gleaming in moonlight. I can see her hair wisp around her face." Walsh shook his head as if catching himself before falling into a dream.

  "Who is she?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Do you want to?"

  “Very much.”

  “Why not find her then?” Bridget leaned over and kissed him hard and hungry on the mouth.

  Walsh found that question interesting. Was he drawn to finding out the meaning behind his visions of the woman? Yes. Did he think she had something to do with the life he couldn’t remember? Yes. Did he think she was real? No. Walsh played with the vial that dangled around his neck absentmindedly.

  “What’s that?” Bridget asked, placing her hand on his.

  “This?” he said, tapping the crescent moon shaped metal. “This is hard to explain.”

  She looked at him intently. “Try me.”

  “Well, it’s a puzzle piece.”

  “And where’s the rest of the puzzle?” she said kissing his neck.

  “Ah, that is the question I wish I could answer.”

  “Why can’t you answer it?” Bridget kissed his chest and slid her hand between his legs.

  Walsh was about to tell her that the vial was the only thing on him when he was found naked and unconscious nearly seven years ago now, but her hand pumping his awakening cock distracted him.

  He grabbed her head and pushed her to his mouth as his fingers explored her glistening snatch. Round two had quickly begun, but a vibrating buzz broke their connection.

  “Shit!” Bridget sat up, scouring the heap of clothes underneath them. “My phone. It’s probably work.”

  Walsh looked at the clock. “It’s 4:00AM. What are you, a baker?”

  Bridget didn’t regard him. She was on her feet, gathering her discarded robe and walking down the hall to the changing room.

  “Yes?” she answered. “I’m across town. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  The bathroom door closed behind her, and Walsh heard water running and the sound of her muffled voice firing off orders.

  “She’s definitely not a baker,” he said to himself.

  In the dim light of INK’s changing room, Bridget Ash, FBI Violent Crimes Special Agent in Charge, readied herself for another day’s work. She balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek and listened to the update from her second in command, ASAC Derrick Furlong.

  “More violent crime,” he said. “Must be Tuesday.”

  Bridget cared little for Furlong’s brand of work humor. When she held silent on her end of the call, he continued.

  “A double homicide across town, at a tattoo shop named Grim’s Reaping Tattoos.”

  Bridget’s breath caught. A tattoo shop, probably not unlike the one she was standing in now. Probably not unlike the one where she paid the owner triple rate to ink her in the middle of the night, and probably not unlike the one where she just got fucked senseless in. Apprehension washed over her, and as her mother would say, she began to question her choices. Walsh seemed to be an OK guy, kind, and for the most part professional. But from what she knew about tattoo shops like INK, the crowd was usually hard, and seedy, and generally up to no good. She wondered what Walsh had been up to before he found her last night. His hand had been wrapped and dotted with oozing pink splotches. Where was he coming from? Her mind whirled as she listened to Agent Furlong’s report.

  “We’re sending Donaldson’s forensics team,” he said.

  Bridget’s mind snapped away from Walsh when she heard Donaldson had been assigned. “No, not him. I want Lamont. He’s the best. And have Local notify the families.”

  That’s what being the boss meant. She could change the plan, no questions asked.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Don’t call me ma'am, Furlong.”

  “Sorry, Ash. You know me and protocol.”

  Yes, she knew all about Furlong and his love for the rules. That’s why their one and only date ended the way it did, with a handshake, because fraternization was against FBI protocol.

  “One more thing,” Furlong added. “Don’t eat breakfast.”

  Bridget knew all too well what that meant. After six years in violent crimes, she had seen her fair share of blood and gore, and lost a few lunches along the way. But she was a veteran now, a professional, and walking into a crime scene filled with death was as shocking to her as Miami winter rain.

  “I’m on my way,” she said and abruptly ended the call.

  Bridget looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, floor-fucked, and flew in all directions like it had a mind of its own. In the corner of the dressing room stood a small table with potpourri–strange–and a coffee canister of toiletries. She dug around and found a loose hair band and an unopened bottle of mouthwash. Score. Using the hair band, she fastened her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head and rinsed with mouthwash until she no longer tasted sex.

  Her clothes were another matter. The suit was passable, but the blouse looked camped in. Chiffon only ever had one wear in it, she knew that, yet she tried to smooth and straightened it to no avail. She looked around and found a bin of lost and found items and pulled out a white and blue polka-a-dotted scarf. She slipped it over her neck and smoothed it out until she could tuck the edges into the top of her skirt. She then put on her jacket and buttoned it up, something she never did. Satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, she dumped her top in the trash and exited wearing nothing but her bra, a sheer tankini, and a scarf that belonged in her grandmother’s closet.

  When she emerged from the changing room, Bridget found Walsh in the leather-couched waiting area holding a coffee pot. He had put on his jeans but poured steaming hot coffee into mugs bare-chested. Sweet and sexy, she thought to herself. She wanted to stay, wanted to linger awhile, sip coffee and see wherever that took them, but Furlong was waiting and that meant he was waiting for a chance to take the reins.

  Walsh looked twice when he noticed her. Was the put together version of herself so different than the Bridget he met last night? He padded over to her and delivered what was probably the first of many coffees of that day.

  “Thanks,” she said. She took it and breathed in its rich aroma. “Smells good.”

  “You cook?” she asked, motioning to the Kiss the Cook painted on his mug.

  Walsh chuckled. “No. My wife, ex-wife actually.”

  And there it was, the reality of people with lives. Of course he had an ex-wife, he probably had a girlfriend, or two. Just look at him. What did she have? A 24/7 job as FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Violent Crimes section, an antisocial cat, and a bookcase full of half-read books.

  The air between them grew thick then. He looked at her, and scratched his head as if searching for the right words in his scruffy red hair. She took another sip then placed the mug on the table in front of them. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Time to make the donuts.”

  He laughed, and she saw how his eyes stayed on her.

  “Can I see you again?” he asked. He slid a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and without a belt, she could almost see his pubic bone.

  “Don’t you have to see me again?” she said. “You know, to finish my tat.”

  “Right.” Relief washed over his face. “Maybe we should book that follow up now?”

  In that moment, restlessness washed over her again. It was the same feeling she had when she left her downtown office last night, like a frightened bird trapped indoors. The urge to flee swelled inside her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him again, she most certainly did. She just didn’t know when, or how, or if there would ever be another right time to follow her abandon again.

  “I’ve got your card.” She lied, but it didn’t matter. She knew how to find him.

  “Sure. OK. Cool,” was all that Walsh said. He reached out and lightly hugged her, careful not to bother the healing ink. She h
ugged him back, and for a moment in his arms, her chest filled in a way that she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked, digging through her jacket pocket.

  “No, please,” Walsh said, waving his hands in front of her. “We’ll settle up when I’m finished.”

  She hesitated, wanting to protest, but thought better of it. She had to give him something to chew on and if her return was that bone, then so be it. “You have a deal,” she said. She turned on her heels and hurried out the door, stepping into the new dawn light without looking back.

  Four

  Bridget met Connie Winslow on the corner of 147th Street and Hammock Boulevard. Connie was a great field agent, and an even better friend when she needed one.

  The government issued black SUV rolled to a stop and Bridget got in. "Thanks," she said.

  “No problem,” Connie said. A grin spread across her face. “Your gun and badge are in the glove box.”

  Bridget retrieved her forgotten items. “Anyone notice?”

  “Not at all."

  They drove a few blocks in silence.

  “So where did you end up last night?” Connie asked, the suspense clearly killing her.

  “What makes you think I ended up anywhere of interest?”

  "Well, I left at 11:00PM and you were still at the office. And now you're way across town without your gun and badge. That makes me think you ended up in a place of interest.”

  Bridget removed her jacket and eased the leather holster over her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Connie notice her back.

  “Jesus, Bridge, what happened?” Connie’s eyes darted between the road and the bandage covering her lower back, trying to get a better glimpse.

  "Don't ask."

  “You got a tattoo!” Connie said.

  “What makes you think it’s a tattoo, of all things?” Bridget knew Connie was not going to let this rest.

  “Well, you either have some major rug burn, or a new tattoo, wild thing.”

  Wild was not an adjective people used to describe her. Professional. Hard working. Punctual. Dependable. Bridget was all of those, but wild–no. Momentarily overcome with hysterical reckless abandon, but far from wild. She wondered if Walsh Jackson, tattoo artist extraordinaire, thought of her as untamed. What would feral look like to a man who lived on the edge? She shook the thought of him away. It wasn’t that she regretted last night, but reality looked clearer in the daylight. He was a tattoo artist in Richmond Heights, and she was an FBI Special Agent in Charge who had worked her whole life to become the youngest SAC in FBI history. What could they really have in common other than one hot steamy night?