Page 61 of Connor's Claim
“In an hour. Get them out.”
Holding his gaze, I pulled my t-shirt over my head.
“And the bra.”
I unclipped it and let my breasts fall free, discarding my unneeded clothing on the sofa.
Connor stilled, and under his stare, goosebumps rose on my skin. My nipples pebbled, aching with the need to be touched.
“Fucking hell, Everly,” he finally released. “Come here.”
I drifted closer, intrigued with what he was doing and liking his attention. His house rule was ridiculous but also fun. For as long as I needed to hide out here, I was going to get off on stripping for his pleasure.
“What are you tattooing?” I asked.
Connor set down the tattoo gun and wiped the place on the arm he’d been inking. “‘Property of Connor Michaels’ across your tits.”
He reached for me. I slipped away.
His lips quirked, but he didn’t chase me down, letting me circle him.
“I’m never satisfied with any designs.” He extended his arm. Twisted it. “There’s always something to add. Drawing on myself calms me.”
He had so much ink. I drew my gaze over the nearest arm, from the skull’s jaw on the back of his hand, to scored knuckles, to black flames behind a splay of knives.
“Talk me through them?”
“Let me touch ye first.”
At my head tilt, he beckoned. Damn him, because I couldn’t resist. He’d had sex with my unconscious body all night and again when we woke, yet neither of us were sated. From his attention alone, I was wet. Needy. Wanting more.
Barefoot, I padded across the polished wooden floor to within arm’s length of him. The high counter he sat at sectioned off the kitchen area from the rest of the living space and was L-shaped, made of a dark-grey polished stone. On the other side, it dropped to a regular work surface with the usual appliances around.
He circled my wrist and pulled me in until I was between his knees, my back to his front. Both his hands went to my breasts. He cupped me, stroking over my skin, his huff of breath disturbing my hair.
I watched his inked fingers move on me then dropped my head back to his shoulder, the feel as good as the sight. I was so sensitive that fire trailed his touch. “Better?”
“I will never get enough.”
I knew the feeling. I’d lived for so long without him that this brief interval of time together had no right to hit me so hard.
Connor moulded me, taking his time over playing. “Pick up my gun.”
I blinked my eyes open. “The tattoo gun?”
“Aye. I wouldn’t put a loaded weapon in your hand unless ye were face to face with one of the men who hurt ye. That’ll come later.”
He was joking, probably.
I collected the tattoo gun. Examined it. The sharp end. The little well of black ink.
Connor released one breast and extended his left arm. “Draw on me.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s either that or I’ll carry out my threat and write on these.”
He tapped my boob. I glowered back.