Dangerous (Wicked Hearts Book 2) Read online

  Dangerous

  Wicked Hearts: Book Two

  Sara Cate

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek…

  Untitled

  Also by Sara Cate

  About the Author

  “You need to get out of the house. It’s a beautiful day,” Ruby barks from the laundry room.

  I’ve been sketching in my book for over an hour, but I’m not happy with any of it, so all she hears is me crumpling paper and tossing into the garbage. The drawings just keep getting too dark.

  I don’t answer her, but I figure she’s right. Hazel’s been sleeping so much that there hasn’t been much for me to do around the house, which is peaceful.

  I like it peaceful. According to my calendar, it’s been exactly ten months since I showed up on Wicked Beach when 87-year-old Hazel Whitaker hired me as her personal live-in companion. Not her nurse. Not her housekeeper. Just her companion. My job basically entails listening to her stories, rolling her joints, and keeping her secrets.

  But it would appear that now...like it or not...my peaceful days are numbered.

  Her health is fading, fast. Just three weeks ago, the doctors said the cancer is not reacting to the radiation, so it was time to get her house in order.

  It felt like he was signing my death certificate too. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to depend on. So once Hazel is gone, I’m on my own again. Goodbye, beautiful beach mansion. Goodbye, boring life.

  Maybe that’s why I decide on a walk through town today. It feels like my last chance to enjoy it. The boardwalk is touristy and usually too full of people for me to even consider being out in the open like this, but today is a Tuesday in June, which means it’s the quiet before the summer storm.

  The weather is pleasant too. Not too hot. But it’s never unbearable here, it would seem. The cool ocean breeze makes sure of that. So I put on my purple sundress that I never get to wear because I don’t ever go anywhere, and I walk to the boardwalk.

  I pass a few storefronts that don’t entice me enough to stop. It’s mostly touristy shit, and seeing as how I don’t really have a home, magnets with Wickett Beach embossed across the front wouldn’t really make sense for me. The humble bookshop is sweet and quiet, but I’m not really into reading so I walk back out after a quick meander of the aisles.

  The whole trip starts to feel like a waste.

  Then, I pass a tattoo shop. Something about it makes me stop. It’s so clean and bright inside that it’s actually inviting, unlike the seedier shops I’d seen in the past. My ex and I had been to tattoo shops before, but it was never for tattoos. It was usually a cover for another type of operation or for Hugo to have a “conversation” with someone.

  I shouldn’t go in. I told myself I would never visit any place that resembled my old life, but to be fair, this place doesn’t. So without knowing why, I open the door and walk in.

  There’s not a soul in sight as I approach the glass counter with body jewelry under the bright lights. On the case is a book filled with pictures that entices me to flip through, although I know exactly what I would get if I wanted a tattoo. No question.

  “Be right out,” a deep voice booms from somewhere behind the wall separating the lobby from the back.

  I flinch from the sound. When you live with an old lady and her various nurses, you go a long time without hearing a man’s voice, and it has an effect.

  I nearly bolt. One step toward the door, and I’m ready to be out of the small space, but then he walks into view, and I’m stuck.

  Thick beard, broad shoulders, and a scowl that looks like it never rests makes me freeze in place. Old habits die hard and all, but as soon as I’m in his presence, I feel defensive.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks as he rests his broad tattooed forearms on the counter, leaning forward with a quizzical smirk on his face.

  “Just...looking,” I stammer. Which is a stupid thing to say. No one ‘just looks’ in a tattoo shop. You only come in for strict business, not browsing.

  “See anything you like?” His eyes are trained on my face, and it’s disarming. Behind that glowering brow is a pair of emerald green eyes that somehow look kinder than the rest of his features.

  “No,” I say too quickly. “Not for me. I can’t…”

  “You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo. State law,” he says flatly, and I return an offended huff at his insinuation that I’m still a teen.

  “I’m twenty-two,” I answer.

  “Okay.” His nonchalant attitude grinds my nerves. I should just leave, but his stare has me pinned.

  “I just meant I can’t get a tattoo because it’s not really my style.”

  “Sure, you can. I get people in here from all walks of life, and if it’s your job you're worried about...we can always hide them.” His eyes scan my body as he says that, and I would be offended if a sensation of excitement didn’t just flood my veins.

  “No, thank you,” I press, turning to leave.

  “If you change your mind…”

  I glance back to find him holding something out for me, and I hate to be rude so I close the space between us to take the small black card from his hand.

  As I get closer, I can make out the subtle strands of gray in his beard and the small creases around his eyes. He’s probably at least a decade older than me, and I have a feeling that I won’t be able to get him out of my head for a long time.

  “Sorry for assuming you were a teenager,” he mutters as I take his card.

  “It’s fine.”

  “I can tell you came in here for a reason, so think about it. You obviously want to treat yourself to something nice, so go for it.”

  I don’t answer him as I turn away. This is stupid, I think. Echoes of the spontaneous girl I used to be fill my mind as I stare at his name on the card.

  Wicked Hearts Ink

  Owner, Murph

  “Just Murph?” I ask with a little bit of a smile on my lips.

  “Just Murph,” he answers, mimicking my tone. Are we flirting?

  I’m hesitating in the doorway, tapping my finger against the card as I try to decide if I really want a tattoo or if I just don’t want to leave the shop.

  “Alright, fine,” I say as I turn back toward him. I like the way his sly smile hides under his facial hair. I can see it in the way his eyes crinkle in the corners.

  “That’s more like it.” He walks to the side of the counter, grabbing a form from where I can’t see. “Fill this out and come have a seat. I don’t have an appointment for a couple more hours, so I can fit you right in.”

  The form sits on the table, waiting for me to sign it. A waiver, I’m sure. For his own safety, in case I end up with a wild infection or try to sue him for voluntarily getting this tattoo. I don’t plan on suing him, but that’s not the problem. Leaving paper trails isn’t exactly my style, but he’s not watching as he busies himself around the station, pulling out paper towels and gloves. Quickly, I jot down a fake name and a signature, leaving the pen on the surface and walking over to where he waits. There are three chairs sta
tioned in front of large mirrors surrounded by rolling tool carts like you would see in a garage.

  Instinctually, I scan the rest of the room, but there’s a whole back room I can’t see through the door. “You work alone?” I ask, trying to sound curious and not paranoid or creepy.

  “Just me for now,” he replies. “Logan comes in later, so if you want it now…” He holds his hands out as if he’s offering himself. “You’ll have to settle on me.”

  Settle on him? How is there not a row of drooling girls at the window? I hardly think anyone would be settling on him.

  He’s talking about the tattoo. I smile and walk toward him.

  “So, what do you have in mind?” He sits on the stool and watches me as I approach. His legs are wide and his hands rest on his thighs. Through his tight shirt, I can make out the outline of his chest, and I realize I should probably be very intimidated by him. He’s massive, loud, and a little scary looking.

  But those eyes...

  “Morning glories,” I blurt out, shaking off the feeling of vulnerability.

  I notice the way he freezes for a split second. I’ve surprised him, but he doesn’t answer my request.

  “Is that something you can do...or would you have to sketch it out first?”

  “You mean something like this?” He holds out his arm, and there on his forearm is a bouquet of blue flowers with delicate petals, a couple of them almost falling off the stem. My breath hitches as I sit on the chair and touch his arm.

  “Yes, exactly,” I whisper. “Those are perfect.”

  The rest of his arm is covered with other drawings, gears, skulls, and a pair of dice—things you’d expect on a man like him, but the morning glories stick out. They are the only thing in color, bright blue and green.

  He clears his throat, and I realize I still have my hand on his arm, letting my fingers glide down the stems of the flowers.

  Jesus.

  My hands snap away and land in my own lap. Way to be a weirdo, Savannah.

  I wait for him to explain why those specific flowers or ask me what the meaning is for me. Instead, his lips lift in a smirk as he motions to the back of the chair. “Sit back.”

  Swallowing my nerves, I do as he says, trying to push down the hem of my dress that suddenly feels too short as it rides up my thighs. Something about this situation, being alone in this place with this man feels too intimate.

  Or just the right amount of intimate.

  “Where do you want it?”

  I have to keep my eyes on his face or else they threaten to drift over his shoulders, chest, and that obvious bulge in his jeans.

  Where do I want it? I repeat in my mind, and I know I have to answer quickly or else the obvious innuendo of that phrase will fill the already-awkward space between us.

  At this point, being in the presence of a man, for the first time in so long—a whispering reminder of the life I used to live, has my body shouting at me to remember what it was like. To feel a man’s touch, his hands on my skin, around my body. Goosebumps erupt along the flesh of my exposed thighs.

  “Here,” I choke, my voice breaking. I point to the inside of my upper thigh, just above my knee. It’s a strange place for a tattoo, for sure, but there’s meaning there.

  I notice his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. With one eyebrow cocked, his gaze drifts down from my face to the puckered skin just below the hem of my purple cotton sundress. A raised scar roughly the size of a dollar and shaped like a fish hook catches his attention. I can see the questions on his face as the room grows silent.

  Operation scars look different than violent scars. Violent scars are not methodical or neat. They are erratic, loud, and almost weep with memory. This scar, from the broken window of a four-door sedan eight feet under water tells a story that I don’t want in my book anymore. I want it covered.

  I break the silence, luring his eyes back to my face and not my open legs. “I know it’s difficult to tattoo scars, and I’ve done my research, but I want this covered. Is that...possible?” My voice shakes, giving away my nerves.

  He clears his throat. “I can do that.”

  Then, he leans forward. With just the expression on his face, he asks to touch it. I nod in return. The fingers of his right hand reach forward, and methodically, as if he’s inspecting the spot, he grazes the raised bump between my knees.

  Having gone so long without another person’s touch anywhere below my belly button, I jump from the contact. His eyes meet mine. Then, he goes back to rubbing his thumb over the scar, and I feel my pulse quicken, my breath coming out in short spurts as if someone has crushed my lungs and won’t let me breathe.

  I know he’s touching it for the purpose of the tattoo, but I watch the way he bites his lip, and I can tell it’s just as unnerving for him as it is for me. He swallows again. The room is deliciously silent, and this chemistry between us has changed. It’s dangerously close to something more than just a tattoo artist and his client.

  His hand tightens on my leg as his thumb stills over the spot, but he doesn’t take it away. It’s as if he’s frozen in place, deep in thought.

  The air in the room alters in the next blink, and he must sense it because he immediately moves to pull his hand off my leg. My breath echoes through the silence in a shallow gasp as I cover his hand, holding it in place.

  This is insane.

  His eyes find mine, and I notice they are no longer squinted in scrutiny but shrouded in intrigue. I’m just holding my hand over his without really knowing why other than the contact has me feeling out of sorts and reckless—very fucking reckless.

  This is insane, my mind tries to remind me again. But I don’t listen.

  I guide his fingers upward until his hand is under my dress. I wait for him to snatch them away or react in disgust, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t even register to me at that moment that this guy could be married or have a girlfriend, and even if it did, I probably would have done the same thing. With his gaze fixed on my face, he slowly rubs his fingers upward, and my legs fall open in response. My mind has stopped working as my body takes over, blinded by this sudden, intense sensation.

  His eyes have me captured, and when I break away from his gaze, all I can see are his lips, his shoulders, the movement of his chest.

  With one quick breath, I lean forward and capture his mouth with mine. It should feel wrong. He doesn’t even know my name, but it doesn’t feel wrong at all. He smells so good, and his beard brushing the skin of my lips makes crave him even more.

  He moans into the kiss, and a warm buzz floods through my stomach as his tongue invades my mouth.

  I gasp against his lips as his hand slides under my ass, hoisting me off the chair so that I’m straddling his lap. Our kiss grows hungrier, his fingers exploring the backs of my thighs then up my dress to the bare skin of my back.

  His touch gives me life, like I had been sleeping for the past year, growing stale and lonely without the contact of another human.

  Wrapping my legs around his broad hips, I sense the hardness under his jeans, and I find myself writhing against him, hunting for that pleasure that comes so easily now that I’ve been completely sensitized to it.

  My hands latch onto his face, enjoying the feel of his thick hair through my fingers. He might be older than me, but it doesn’t change the way he kisses me. In fact, his touch seems more adept and confident. His hand cascades along my rib cage like I’m an instrument in his hands.

  “What are you doing to me?” he groans against my neck.

  A wave of heat pelts me in the stomach again. The notion that I’ve made this strong man weak is a power I could easily get off to.

  The grinding rhythm on his lap drives me closer and closer. With his hands on my ass, he joins in the cadence, rubbing our bodies together until I feel my skin begin to tingle and my toes curl.

  “Oh my god,” I gasp as I reach the moment just before pure ecstasy takes over. I can’t believe this is happening, and for a second, I think
I should be humiliated that I’m about to come on top of this complete stranger, but my body won’t let me stop.

  A low growl emits from his chest. His hand winds around my waist, pulling me even closer, and the pressure between my legs is intense. He grips my face with the other hand, kissing my mouth harshly as I seize up in his hands. I’m completely at his mercy as I lose myself to the orgasm.

  I’m caught in the longest tremor, my legs locked around his body, and he doesn’t let go until I start to relax, my body melting against his. When I finally start to fade back into reality, a sudden moment of shame turns my already red cheeks even redder. With my eyes wide, I stare at the man beneath me.

  “Oh my god,” I mumble.

  What was I thinking?

  This is insane.

  Oh. My. God.

  I must be so deprived that I literally jumped on the first person who touched me and grind myself against him like a cat in heat.

  “I’m so sorry.” I pull away when he tries to kiss me again.

  “Sorry for what?” He takes his hands off my body, clearly in shock from my sudden turn of emotion. “That was amazing.”

  “I don’t even know you. This was a mistake.” Climbing off his lap, I nearly fall over when I find that my legs are still weak, and I can hardly hold myself up.

  “Didn’t feel like a mistake to me.”

  When he stands, I can still see the raging erection in his pants. “Oh my god, you— I didn’t—” My thoughts are incoherent, and even though I just had an earth shattering orgasm in his lap, I can’t bring myself to admit that he didn’t get the same. It suddenly feels like I’m talking to a stranger again.

  “It’s fine,” he chuckles, reaching for me again.