One of Jade’s hands goes to my shoulder to adjust my position.
“First problem, your stance is completely wrong,” he says, using his foot to nudge my feet wider apart. “You’re standing like you’re afraid the gun’s going to attack you. Plant your feet. You want a stable base, not whatever this tippy toe situation is.”
He continues his lessons. We practice the stance, the grip, the sight alignment over and over until my arms ache. By the end of the lessons, I’ve actually managed to hit the paper a few times. Not well, but it’s progress.
After we finish up, I head to the private room where Knox is getting tattooed. The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the air as I push through the door.
Knox is stretched out on his stomach, and his eyes track my movement the second I enter.
I settle into a chair in the far corner, deliberately positioning myself so I can’t see whatever design is taking shape on his back. He’s been so secretive about it, covering it up every time I try to peek.
“How were the lessons?” he asks.
“Jade’s an asshole.”
Knox grins. “That’s exactly why I like him. Absolutely zero moral compass. Just like you.”
“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I love you,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “And you’d look incredible naked on this table.”
I have to give the tattoo artist credit; he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pause in his work or give any indication he heard Knox’s inappropriate comment.
The heat in Knox’s voice and the way he’s looking at me make my cheeks burn. It’s ridiculous how he can still make me blush like a teenager. We’ve been having an insane amount of sex lately–like, constantly, everywhere, in ways that would probably get us arrested if we got caught. And somehow simple comments like that still turn me into a blushing mess.
Even now, I’m getting flustered thinking about yesterday when he pulled me into that supply closet behind the bar during peak hours and had me pressed against the shelves, one hand over my mouth to muffle my gasps while he worked me over with his fingers until my legs gave out. Then later, he had me sprawled across his office desk for what felt like hours, bringing me right to the edge over and over until I was crying and begging him to let me
finish.
This level of constant arousal can’t be normal. I’m starting to think I need medical intervention.
“The tattoo’s almost done,” Knox says, giving me that knowing smile that means he can read every dirty thought crossing my face. “Want to see it?”
I get up slowly, my legs still a little unsteady, and walk over to where he’s lying. When I’m close enough to see his back clearly, I stop short.
Spread across the entire width of his back, rendered in bold black ink, is a large bunny. Complete with long ears and everything.
This isn’t what I expected at all.
It is not some cute cartoon bunny or Easter decoration. This thing is dark, almost menacing.
I study it for a long moment, taking in every detail. When it dawns on me that this mountain of a man chose to permanently ink a bunny on his back. Well, it’s a terrifying bunny but still a bunny. I giggle. Before I know it, I’m doubled over, laughing so hard I have to wrap my arms around my stomach. Tears are streaming down my face, and I can’t stop. Every time I try to catch my breath, the image of Knox’s demon rabbit sends me into another fit.
“Is something wrong?” Knox immediately sits up, concern written all over his face.
I wipe at my cheeks and shake my head, stepping into the space between his legs. “No,” I breathe out, smiling as I run a hand through his hair. It’s beautiful, Knox.”
1/3
Chapter 147
“You’re not just saying that to stop me from suing the artist?”
I laugh again, leaning down a little. “It’s beautiful,” I repeat. “I hope we don’t have to twin or anything, though. That looked extremely painful.
“The real question is, would you tattoo a dick on a dick? You’re already a bunny. My bunny” And then he pulls me in closer until I’m straddling see thigh and he’s whispering against my ear. “Horny like a bunny too.”
A full–body shiver runs through me. His beard scrapes against the curve of my ear, and I’m seconds from letting out a sound I’ll regret when i catch the tattoo artist staring intently at the far wall like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“Stop it,” I whisper, swatting at his shoulder. “That’s ticklish.”
His nose brushes my cheek, then he pulls just far enough to meet my eyes. “Do you know one special thing about bunnies?”
“If this is going where I think it’s going-”
“They have a very high reproductive drive.”
“Knox.”
“Come on,” he says, pulling me flush against him. “It’s just ten. What’s the big deal about having ten kids?”
I give him a look. “How about my vagina never looking or acting the same again? How about crotch goblins running around the house? With ten kids. I’ll never have a life again.”
He’s been skirting around this topic since his surgery, never fully coming out to say it, just dropping random hints. Like asking if I wanted us to move into a bigger house with more bedrooms. “What’s wrong with the one we have?” I’d said. Or how he randomly drops comments like, “This house would need a lot of baby proofing. Too many sharp corners.” I’m good at avoiding the conversation because I’m not ready to share him. I almost lost him three months ago in a basement full of bullets and blood and fear. I’m still not over it. He’s barely healed. I’m not ready to love anyone else the way I love him.
“You let me worry about your vagina,” he says, “since it’s mine.”
“Fuck off, Knox.”
“How about eight kids?”
“Two.”
“Six.”
“Two.”
“Don’t you ever compromise?”
“This is me compromising.”
He’s smiling again, and before I can come up with another smart response, he leans in and kisses me. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s intense. His hand comes up behind my neck, guiding my face to his. Our mouths fit together like they always do–perfectly, hungrily–and I lose track of everything until t hear someone clear their throat. The tattoo artist. Still pretending the wall is fascinating.
We break apart, and Knox rests his forehead against mine, still breathing hard. “Let’s continue this conversation over acos later.”
“Tacos?” I whisper.
“Yup. I know just the spot.”
“Since when do you eat tacos?”
“You’d want to know, wouldn’t you?” He nudges me gently back. “Now go sit your pretty ass back on that chair before I cut this session short and finish
what we started.”
I glance at the artist, self–conscious now. “I’ll be right over there.”
#
