One Night of Trouble

As he spoke, he lightly caressed her cheek again, as if he couldn’t go a single second without touching her. Brett had zero complaints about that. Every time those big, warm hands connected with her skin, it felt like her entire body was engulfed by flames.

“We close at nine. But if it’s dead, I’m usually out of there by eight.”

“Come to the club when you’re finished.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. But she wasn’t complaining about that, either. She was discovering that his dominance was as addictive as his touch.

“Use the staff door in the back of the building,” he added. “Hit the intercom and tell the security guy you’re there for me. I’ll make sure he knows I’m expecting you.”

His smoldering look told her precisely what he planned on doing to her when she got there.

She gulped. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” AJ dropped a quick kiss on her lips before heading for the door, but when he reached the threshold, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “And Brett?”

“Yeah?”

A darkly wicked note entered his voice. “Don’t wear any panties.”

Chapter Six

Thanks to AJ’s parting words, Brett had a bitch of a time concentrating at work. Which probably wasn’t something her clients would be thrilled to know, seeing as tattooing required patience and infinite concentration. One blunder could affect a person’s entire life, whether it was a slip of the hand or one misspelled word. And sure, laser tattoo removal was commonplace nowadays, but Brett refused to put any of her clients through the process because of a careless mistake on her part.

So although her brain was in full-blown AJ mode, she’d forced herself to focus on making art and not think about how badly she wanted to have sex with him again.

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, the shop had emptied out, much to her delight. Once she’d finished touching up a back piece for her last client, she left her station and settled behind the front counter in the main room, doodling on a sketch pad as she waited for walkins. The monotonous buzzing behind the curtain of Rob’s workspace served as a soundtrack for her sketching. She loved everything about working at the studio. The people, the smell of ink, the soothing sound of the tattoo gun.

But she’d love it even more if she were the one in charge, and not just another employee for her big brother to order around.

She lifted her head and glanced at the computer screensaver, which displayed a bright blue bubble flashing the current time. Eight ten. Argh. She couldn’t take off until Rob gave her the okay, but she was dying to leap out of her chair and drive straight to Sin. She squirmed in her chair as she watched the minutes tick by, all the while keeping a constant vigil on the door and praying that nobody walked in demanding a last-minute consultation. The rule of thumb at Conlon Ink was to never turn a client away. Even if someone showed up five minutes to closing, Brett was expected to stay as late as necessary in order to tend to the customer.

Eight twelve. God, why was time dragging on so slowly? She was tempted to manually change the computer settings to nine o’clock and tell Rob her shift was over, but the new and improved Brett didn’t pull stunts like that. Besides, Rob was too smart to buy such a dumb ploy.

Ding.

Brett smothered a groan when the bell over the door chimed loudly. She pasted on a smile, ready to greet the unwanted customer. When the door swung open, her unhappiness dissolved into relief.

“Hey, princess,” her father said cheerfully. His heavy black boots thudded on the tiled floor as he strode to the counter. “C’mere and give your old man a hug.”

Brett leaped out of the chair and walked into her dad’s outstretched arms, returning the big hug he gave her. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

“Just came by to see my favorite daughter.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m your only daughter.”

“Says who?” Jimmy Conlon flashed a sly smile. “Maybe I have a secret attic family I never told you about.”

“Ha. Mom would’ve ripped your throat out with her bare hands if you pulled that crap on her.”

“Never,” he declared. “Your mother was a pacifist.”

Hardly. Brett didn’t have as many memories of her mom as she liked, but from what she did remember, Norah Conlon had been a total spitfire. Headstrong and outspoken, Brett’s mom hadn’t taken crap from anyone, and Brett knew she’d inherited her temper from her spirited mother.