“Oh thank fuck,” he finally says, and plunges into the heat of my mouth. “Make yourself come or I swear to God I am going to steal you away to some remote cabin and punish you for three days.”

Rowan Kane, always threatening me with a good time. 

He loosens his grip on my throat but keeps me steady as I kneel before him and take his cock as deep as I can. It hits the back of my throat and my garbled, choked sounds spur the rhythm of his thrusts. With my other hand, I plunge my fingers into my pussy until they’re coated in my arousal and the cum he already spilled into me earlier.

My slick fingers withdraw, and then I move my touch to Rowan, finding the pleated rim of his ass. He shudders as I massage the tight ring, and then I push a finger inside.

“Oh holy shit, Sloane—”

“Are you using your safe word?”

“Fuck no.”

I grin and add a second finger, gently stroking until I find the touch that makes him tremble. “What a good boy,” I coo, my tone saccharine. “And good boys get rewards.”

My lips seal around his cock and I suck.

An uninhibited sound of pleasure rumbles from Rowan’s chest as I fuck him with my fingers and swallow his erection. With my other hand, I circle my clit, climbing closer to the orgasm I know he’ll demand of me. And as I feel his body coil tight, that’s exactly what he does. Demands.

“Blackbird, you’d better come right the fuck now because you are killing me and I swear to fucking God—”

I fall apart with his cock plunged to the back of my throat, my whimpering moan a vibration that surrounds his length.

His words set me off every time.

A breath later, Rowan growls as his hot cum floods my mouth. I swallow every drop and draw out his pleasure until I’m sure he’s spent, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his naked chest with his shuddering breaths.

“We’ve gotta go,” I say with a devious smile as I withdraw my fingers from his ass. “We’re going to be late.”

Rowan gives me a flat glare that doesn’t last, then presses a kiss to my forehead before we clean ourselves up, get dressed, and rush out the door.

Every step we take in the warm June sun has my heart hammering, not with anxiety, but with excitement. If Rowan is nervous, he doesn’t let on. He tells an animated story about Lachlan from when they were teenagers as we walk the city streets, our fingers interlaced, my other hand braced around the largest scar on the inner surface of his forearm. The night it happened, Fionn had meticulously treated the wound and used Dermagraft to replace the missing tissue, and Rowan was diligent about taking care of it from that night on. And soon, the scar will be transformed into something beautiful.

He’ll love it. I know he will. 

We stop at Kane Atelier on the way to our appointment, entering the shop to the scent of leather and the sound of indie music. I tamp down a grin as I wonder if Lachlan ever listens to Lark’s music, and when I glance at Rowan beside me, I think he might be wondering the same.

“You old twat. What are you working on?” Rowan says as Lachlan wheels his worn swivel chair away from his desk and tosses what looks like reading glasses next to the hide he’s carving.

“Custom saddlebags for a biker’s Harley. If I couldn’t kick your ass myself, he would gladly do it for me,” Lachlan fires back. “And I’m only two years older than you, dipshit.”

“Then why are you wearing old man glasses? You look like you’re about to do a crossword puzzle and fall asleep in your La-Z-boy recliner,” Rowan says with a wink at me.

“Fuck off. What do you want, you feckin’ asshat?”

“Actually it’s me, I have a little request,” I say as I take a step closer to Rowan’s brash older brother.

“Ah the spider lady, coming to ask me for a favor,” Lachlan says with a devious grin as he leans back in his chair.

“Actually, I’m calling in a favor.”

“Oh really? What favor is that.”

“Saving your little brother.”

“If I remember correctly,” Lachlan says, tapping one of his ringed fingers on his chin, “I helped clean up your rather messy murder scene before erasing any record of the existence of a certain David Miller from the annals of serial killer history. So, I’d say we’re even. You’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes and Rowan smirks next to me. “Fine. A favor for Lark Montague in that case.”

There’s a beat of hesitation before Lachlan emphatically says, “Fuck, no.”

“Come on,” I reply, my voice bordering on a whiny plea as I take another step closer. “Lark is moving to Boston the same week that we’re going to be away. Just help her get her stuff into her new apartment, please. She doesn’t have much.”

“Why doesn’t she have much?” Lachlan asks, his brow furrowed, his voice stern. Rowan and I exchange a fleeting, confused glance before I refocus on Lachlan.

“Um, she travels light, I guess…?”

Lachlan’s gaze darkens as though this is insufficient information before he smooths his reaction beneath an apathetic mask. “Fine. But don’t expect me to stick around when it’s done.”

“Of course not.”

“And I’m not going to show her around the city or some shit.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We’re not like, friends. She can’t call me for…milk.”

“Okay… I’ll let her know not to call you for milk. Done.”

Lachlan grunts. I grin.

“Thank you,” I say as I walk over and give him a hug I already know he won’t return. “You won’t regret it.”

“Yes I will.”

“Okay then.”

I give him a kiss on his stubbled cheek to the sound of Rowan’s delighted snort and then back away.

“Thanks for that, bellend. We’ve gotta run,” Rowan says with a teasing grin that Lachlan returns with a flat glare, but he still rises from his chair. He walks us out of the studio and onto the street, and we make plans to get together for dinner next week before he presses his forehead to Rowan’s like he always does. And then we’re off, heading to our appointment hand in hand, taking our time to enjoy our simple company and the mounting excitement for what’s to come as we weave our way to our destination.

The little brass bell rings at the top of the door as we enter Prism Tattoo Parlor.

Laura, the owner of the shop, greets us warmly and gives Rowan a consent form to complete as she and I finalize details about the design I gave her, our voices hushed so that Rowan can’t hear the specifics. When everything is signed and the design is printed on the transfer paper, Rowan takes a seat in Laura’s chair.

“Sorry, Butcher, but I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you,” I say as I step behind him to lower a blindfold over his eyes. Laura smirks as she preps Rowan’s arm and transfers the stencil across his scar.

“You wound me,” he says.

“Right,” I snort. “Did you or did you not follow me for three days in California just so you could cheat your way into winning a game?”

“I did not cheat. And besides, I lost. Miserably, I might add. I still can’t eat ice cream.”

I grin and take a seat next to him so I can watch as Laura starts to lay down the first black lines in his skin. “Maybe we’ll start a desensitization program for you. I have some ideas.”

“Now you’re talking.”

It takes a few hours, but the picture comes to life on Rowan’s arm, a design I made myself and worked with Laura to refine so it would cover his scars and fit the contours of his musculature. And before long, she’s cleaning the fresh tattoo off, wiping away the excess ink and the dots of blood to reveal the final image. We share a bright smile across Rowan’s body, one artist to another, as he peppers us with questions we don’t answer.

“Okay, pretty boy. Time to check it out,” I say as Laura takes one of Rowan’s biceps and I grab hold of the other. We guide him to his feet and over to a full-length mirror. I stand next to him as Laura pulls the blindfold free and he gets his first look at the tattoo that encompasses the length of his forearm.