Kristen Ashley - Motorcycle Man

And last, all around the curve of his left shoulder was a kickass design that included a hooded skull and a set of scales. I had asked but he hadn’t explained that one to me.

That tattoo, as with a number of other things, Tack wanted to share, “later.”

I didn’t press. I was enjoying the now. And I knew, when he was ready, Tack would give me later.

Studying my man in bed, his tats on display, the sheet resting at his hip, his hard, defined muscles and the power of him at rest, his hair a mess, some of it falling over his forehead, he looked such that any woman, no matter their bent, would take a walk on the wild side if this was what she got to wake up to.

And she’d stay.

On that thought, I put a knee to the bed and Tack’s sapphire eyes opened, his head turned on the pillow and those eyes locked sleepily on me.

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered, his voice deeper, rougher, even in a mutter rumbling over my skin.

I went there, moving on my knees into the bed as he pulled partially up, his hands coming out to me and grasping my hips. He rolled to his back and I swung a leg over to straddle him. His hands slid down then up so they were warm against the skin on the inside hem of my cami and his eyes moved over me.

My eyes moved over his tats and I was thinking that beyond anything on this earth, I wanted me to be inked somewhere permanent on his skin. And not like Naomi, an admittedly kickass dragon but one that laid testimony to the fact she pissed him off so bad he breathed fire.

One like Rush and Tabby’s that was beautiful, it’s meaning hidden to anyone but Tack or someone who he allowed close enough to study it long enough to find out.

“Baby,” he whispered and my eyes moved from Tabby’s name to his.

“I’m gaining weight,” I announced and his fingers gave me a squeeze.

“Yeah,” he agreed but said no more.

“I keep going, I’ll need to buy more clothes.”

“So buy more clothes.”

There it was. Not, “Stop drinking beer,” not, “Quit eating the Big Grab of chips with lunch and dipping into the boys’ donut stash” but, “Buy more clothes.”

He didn’t care.

Good.

I bent over him and put my hand to his chest, my eyes dropping there and to watch my finger tracing the curlicue where Tabby’s name was written. While I did this, his hands slid up my cami and moved soothingly over the skin of my sides and back.

“You hungover?” he asked, my eyes went back to his, I shook my head but said, “A little bit. You?”

He shook his head.

My hand slid up his chest, his neck to his jaw and my thumb moved over his stubble on its path to glide along the edge of his goatee where my eyes had dropped to watch.

“You okay?” Tack asked and I looked back at him.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“You’re quiet,” he observed.

“I want to be inked on you,” I blurted.

Yes, I blurted that. Right out.

His hands went completely still.

Damn.

We were having fun. It was easy. It was good. No, it was great. We were in that time when we were getting to know each other, enjoying it, seeing how we fit into each other’s lives.

But it was too new, too soon for something that heavy.

Panicking, I blathered, “I mean… I don’t know, not now –”

I stopped speaking when his fingers tensed into my skin so hard they dug into my flesh. Then I was flying through the air as he lifted and rolled so I landed on my back with Tack on top of me and between my legs.

“You want you inked on me?” he growled and I stared up in his eyes, uncertain what I read there and for the first time in a long time I fought against biting my lip.

“No,” I finally answered and his eyes narrowed scarily. “Yes,” I amended hastily. “I mean, maybe. Eventually. Not now, of course, but –”

“I’m on you.”

I blinked.

He was but I didn’t think that was what he was talking about.

So I asked, “Pardon?”

He didn’t exactly answer. He spoke and maybe he thought it was an answer but he didn’t actually answer.

“I know what. I know where.”

“Tack, honey –”

“A dragon, upper ass, spanning it, near to your waist, almost to your hips. I wanna see it when I’m takin’ you from behind. I wanna see it when you’re on your hands and knees and I’m fuckin’ your face. And I wanna know it’s under my hand when you’re sleeping.”

I got him then and what I got made my head jerk.

“A dragon?” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“But that’s… that’s…” I paused then said so softly it was barely a breath, “Naomi’s.”

“The dragon’s me, babe. The tat I got is me, not her. She said it. I am it. She had that dragon, she lost it. Now it’s yours.”

Oh wow. I liked that.

Then it occurred to me he wanted me to get a tattoo. Not just a tattoo, a tramp stamp.

What he wanted, where he wanted it and why was hot.

But I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t think I’m a tattoo kind of person,” I informed him carefully.

“You weren’t a lotta things before you met me, babe,” he pointed out.

This was true.

“I hear it hurts.”

“Like fuck,” he confirmed.

Not good.

“But it’s worth it,” he continued.

“If I got a tattoo, my Dad would have a conniption,” I shared and this time, his head jerked. “My Mom would also lose her mind,” I added, he didn’t say a word so I finished, “And Uncle Marsh would be none-too-happy and he’s a pretty laidback guy.”

“Any of them in this bed?” Tack asked.

“No.”

“Then what do you care?”

Good point.

“Only two people who matter are in this bed right now,” he told me, making my heart flutter. “This is your life, your body. Not theirs.”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

Tack kept talking, “I’ll take you to my guy, have him sketch somethin’ out. You like it, you get it. It isn’t your gig, don’t get it. I’m tellin’ you what I want. That don’t mean you gotta do it.”

Well, that was nice.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“Now what do you want?”

I stared.

Then I started to ask, “Are you saying, I mean… are you going to get –?”

“Not tomorrow. Not next week. But this keeps on like it is, Red, it’ll happen. Absolutely.”

I felt my body melt underneath his.

That meant the world to me. The absolute world and I had no idea why.

It just did.

“So, I get your ink, what do you want?” he pressed.

My hands slid up his back, one going in to his chest and up to wrap around the side of his neck and I answered softly, “I don’t know.”

“Link with Tabby’s, under my pec, on my ribs,” he decided.

Link with Tabby’s. His daughter. His beloved daughter.

Close to his heart.

Tears instantly filled my eyes and I dipped my chin and turned my head to the side in a ridiculous and futile effort to hide my emotion.

And I knew the effort was futile when Tack’s sweet whisper came at me.

“Baby, look at me.”

“My turn to make breakfast,” I said but my voice was wobbly.

“Tyra, baby,” he was still whispering and his hand wrapped around my jaw, forcing me to face him so the tears slid out the sides of my eyes, along my temples and into my hair.

“Inexplicable hangover crying jag,” I lied stupidly and futilely. “It happens all the time.”

“Bullshit, Red, you been hungover around me more than once and you have not cried.”

“You’re still getting to know me. I keep drinking like I am, you’ll see it.”

He ignored my idiocy and stated, “That meant somethin’ to you.”

I took a shaky breath in through my nostrils but didn’t reply.

“It means somethin’ to you,” he mostly repeated.

I licked my lips and still didn’t reply.

Tack’s thumb moved out to glide along my lips and his face dipped close.

“Admit it, baby, that means somethin’ to you.”

I pulled in breath through my nose again and whispered against his thumb, “No,” and his eyes flashed but I kept going. “It means everything.”

His thumb pressed into my lips as did all of his fingers along my jaw and his eyes shifted to heated and intense.

“Fuck, came three times last night, built seven in you and now I’m gotta fuck you again,” he muttered, his thumb sweeping away and his lips getting closer.

“Tack, you don’t –”

“Shut up, Red,” he said against my lips, “I’m gonna kiss you. Then you’re gonna sit on my face. Then I’m gonna fuck you on your knees and imagine my mark on you. Don’t got time for your games.”

My games?

“Tack!” I snapped. “I’m not playing any –!”

I didn’t finish. His head slanted and he kissed me. Then he deviated from his plan, yanked off my cami and spent some time at my breasts. Then he pulled me over him, tugged off my panties, yanked me down on his mouth and ate me. Then he fucked me from behind, his hands spanning the area just above my ass, under my waist, his thumbs meeting in the middle, his fingertips at my hips.

And during it I decided I was definitely a tattoo person.

Absolutely.

“Don’t worry, Cherry, I’ll get the pig.”

This was Brick accepting the task of finding the pig Chaos was going to roast the next Saturday.

“He always gets the pig,” Hound muttered, grinning at Dog who was grinning back. This told me they were sharing an inside joke. I knew they’d explain if they intended to, they always did, or didn’t as the case may be.

This time they didn’t for no further words were spoken about getting the pig. And seeing as it was a whole pig and that whole pig was a dead pig that would be roasted, I really didn’t want to know how Brick got his hands on it.

I was in my office at Ride’s garage. It was Friday after the Saturday morning that Tack and I had our discussion about tattoos. My office was now filled with rough and tumble bikers. Brick, Dog, Hound and Boz to be exact.

Like the mechanics and body shop guys, members of Chaos hanging in my office was not unheard of. Shortly after Tack officially declared me his woman, this began to happen. It wasn’t frequent. It wasn’t rare. And the boys who came to hang included what I’d discovered was my man’s inner sanctum, in other words, the guys who were closest to him, Dog and Brick (who Tack himself told me were his lieutenants), Hop, Hound and Boz. But I also got visits from all the members of Chaos including the three recruits, Roscoe, Tug and Shy.

Surprisingly it further included the two bikers that Tack confirmed at my question were dissenters but who were back in the fold now that they had to band together against the common enemy of the Russian mob, Arlo and High.

Arlo and High hanging with me at the office wasn’t only surprising because they were the two men I had more than once seen having what appeared to be unhappy conversations with Tack. It was surprising as well because they didn’t seem the type to hang out with a woman and shoot the shit seeing as they were scarier than the other guys. By that I meant scary in a dangerous, menacing way and not just a general, dangerous, rough and tumble biker way. And lastly, this was surprising because, although none of the boys were gentlemen, Arlo and High treated me in a casual, friendly biker way exactly like the others albeit they were more serious and less fun-loving. Nevertheless, the point was made. Whatever beef they had with Tack and/or the direction of the Club was not directed at me.

I’d talked with Tack about this and he wasn’t surprised.

“Like it or not, babe,” he’d started, going what he called gentle-like and I knew he was having a mind to my soft spot with what he was gearing up to tell me. In other words, I wouldn’t like it much. “Chaos, fuck, most MCs, women don’t factor. Only men are members, only men make the decisions. A member takes a woman on, she’s got the protection of the Club. She’s a good woman, she can earn the respect of the men. But she won’t have a say, ever.”

I had nodded and made no response. He was right to go gentle since I didn’t much like what he was saying. But although I didn’t like the information he was sharing, it didn’t surprise me.

Tack kept talking.

“But if a man claims a woman, she’s in the fold and even if she hasn’t yet earned it, they’ll show her respect because doin’ that shows their brother respect. All the men, including Arlo and High, are showin’ me respect by gettin’ to know you.”