“Why have you never pursued a career as a painter?” he asked.

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. Some of the food he ordered had arrived, and I picked at it with my fork, trying a little of everything.

“I have, and I’ve worked with other artists too. Interned at a gallery here in Manhattan after I graduated. Then Rosie moved in and got sick, so she couldn’t hold on to a steady part-time job. Why did you become a lawyer?”

“I like arguing with people.”

I laughed at that. I had to agree. “But you chose mergers and acquisitions, hardly a fast-paced, dramatic way to practice that skill,” I argued.

He picked an olive and brought it to my lips. “Open,” he said darkly.

I did.

“Now swallow.”

I smiled with the olive between my teeth, daring him. He dipped down and kissed me hard, shoving the olive into my mouth with his tongue. It was either choke or swallow. I chose swallow.

He pulled back from me, but his gaze remained on my lips. “Now that’s good practice. As for law, I have no desire to cover up for other people’s fuck-ups. I’d much rather see how my clients double and triple their investments…and mine. People don’t pay me because of my law-school pedigree. I went to a shit college in LA and graduated with people who went to work doing house closings and chasing ambulances. People pay me to make money, and I make a ton of it.”

“What’s your fascination with money? You have so much.”

He leaned forward, picking up a lock of my lavender hair. “Money is like pussy, sweetheart. You can’t ever get enough.”

“Yeah, and it’s made you so happy. You realize you sound like a walking, talking cliché?”

His eyes sparked with something devilish. “I am happy. I’ve never been happier. It’s seven o’clock, so Rosie should be long gone by now. Let’s go before I take you up on that offer about third base right here on the table.”

“I have one more place I want to stop first,” I said.

“Fucking Christ,” he gritted. “How about you keep your side of the deal, Miss LeBlanc?”

“I will. Eventually. Patience is a virtue.”

“Patience can go fuck itself. Wherever we’re stopping, it better be comfortable, because I’m tasting you there.”

ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT was getting into bed with her. I didn’t want to talk to her about life. I didn’t want to get to know her better. Already, I was breaking approximately five thousand different rules by spending the day with her. Every minute spent outside of bed was risky. But it seemed like the more I acted like a blunt, disgusting pig, the more she asked about my profession, my hobbies, my preferences.

People had never given a shit about those things. Ever. Her interest in me didn’t make me feel good. It made me feel weird.

We were headed to Broadway next. I prayed she didn’t really plan for us to go see a play. I had nothing against Broadway shows, but when one was standing in the way of me and her long-awaited pussy, I was just about willing to burn the whole fucking street down. I’d already started doing the math in my head. Calculating the sentence for setting an occupied building on fire. Arson, possibly attempted murder. Those were heavy felonies. What was I looking at here? Hard time. Fifteen years, minimum. Different states varied, but New York was hard on its criminals.

Fifteen years.

Still fucking worth it.

“Vicious!” Emilia snapped me out of my reverie. I walked faster than her even though I had no idea where we were going. I just knew I wanted to get it over with.

“What?” I hissed.

“Did you listen to anything I just said to you?”

Of course not.

“Absolutely.”

“Really?” She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest. “What did I say? Where are we going next?”

It was already past six o’clock and tomorrow was the last day of work before Christmas. I wasn’t in the mood for quizzes.

I looked above her head at the flashing neon sign for a tattoo parlor and blinked once. “You want to get a tattoo,” I said flatly.

By the surprised look on her face, I knew I got it right.

“Of what?” she insisted.

“Of…” I gave myself some time to think about it, even though I didn’t need any. I knew her. Better than most people, actually. “A cherry blossom tree.”

“Screw you.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do here all day. Where are you getting this tattoo? I don’t want it to get in the way of our fuck session.”

“Nape of my neck,” she replied. “Don’t worry, it’ll be pretty small.”

I nodded, my dick twitching twice. Apparently, she got its approval too. “Let’s get you inked.”

I really was a lucky bastard because the parlor was mostly empty, despite it being one of the best places in the City. I didn’t know why Emilia chose to take me with her for her first tattoo, but hell if I cared.

She sketched her tattoo on the stencil paper over the counter, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her red mouth as she scrunched her nose and drew. There was a heavily made-up Goth girl leaning against a barstool. She looked at us like most people did. Like Emilia had kidnapped me or like I was her sensible brother. We were so different it was borderline comical. Me with my custom suit, expensive coat, and rich asshole air about me and her with her burgundy-wine sweater, beanie, Christmas leggings, and army boots.

When Emilia was done and showed her artwork to the girl—it even had coloring and shades—the girl nodded and took the sketch to the back room. Emilia chewed the pencil she’d used, and I took it out of her mouth and shoved it into my pocket.

“Hey, it’s not even ours,” she protested.

“They don’t need this shit with your saliva all over it,” I clipped out.

“Oh? And you do?” She grinned.

I didn’t reply. She was goddamn ridiculous. A big guy with a black goatee and matching long hair—completely tattooed from head-to-toe—stepped out of the back room, flipping aside a black vinyl curtain, and nodded hello to us.

“Name’s Shakespeare. ’Sup?”

We all shook hands. Then he proceeded to go over the process with Emilia. Since it was her first time, he explained the full procedure in detail. And when the fuck would this thing be over? It felt like days had passed since we’d agreed on screwing each other.

Shakespeare—whose goatee actually did make him look like an Elizabethan playwright—asked Emilia if she’d like me to tag along and enter the room. She started answering, “Well…”

Which was obviously not the right answer, so I answered on her behalf. “I’m coming in.”

The tattooist ignored me, moving his eyes between her and me, and tilted his chin down. “He doesn’t have to if you don’t want.”

Fuck him. He made it sound like she was a battered wife.

“Actually, I don’t care if he joins us. I know he loves watching me get hurt.” She winked at me, but she wasn’t smiling, and that thing in my chest sank a little.

Fuck her too.

We walked into the room. The floor was black and white, with red furniture everywhere, and there were framed pictures of Shakespeare’s work. He was good. I took a moment to appreciate his ink.

Shakespeare tossed his iPhone across his desk and dropped to his swivel chair in front of the adjustable tattoo table Emilia was already perched on. “What’s your poison?” he asked, sending her a wink.

I’m going to cut his fucking goatee off and feed it to him.

Emilia chose “Nightcall” by Kravinsky. He hooked his phone to a USB cable, and the music started blasting from every corner of the room. Shakespeare asked Emilia to take off her sweater and bra and lie on the table on her stomach, and to brush all her hair away from her back. She lifted her sweater, exposing her silky olive skin for the first time in front of me. My cock begged for my mind to do something, anything, to lure her to third base like we’d shook hands on.

When she reached for the back of her bra to undo it and turned her back to me, I snapped.

I pulled my wallet out of my pocket. “Here’s my credit card.” I extended the plastic to Shakespeare, waving it between my fingers like a bribe. “You can use it for whatever you want. Just give us ten minutes alone.”

Shakespeare opened his mouth, not touching the credit card, glancing between me and Emilia, who looked just as shocked as he did, if not more. But it was too late to take it back, and I didn’t want to anyway.

Come the fuck on, Goatee. Turn around and walk away.

“Anything,” I stressed, my face still blank. “Go get yourself a new chair. Or a table. Or ink, whatever the fuck it is you need. My treat. Go order food for the whole building. Buy the stray cat down the road a bed to piss on. I’ll give you ten minutes with my credit card if you give me ten minutes in this room with her. Alone.”

“Is your boyfriend always so aggressive?” He arched an eyebrow in Emilia’s direction, throwing her a questioning look that asked: Do you want me to leave you alone with this asshole, or do you want me throw him outside and call NYPD?

She laughed her syrupy Southern belle laugh that always seemed to stab straight to the pit of my fucking stomach. “He’s not my boyfriend.”