Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) by Allie Juliette Mousseau Page B

almost as soon as it started. He cracks open the door and hot steam rolls out.
    Ryder walks in, waterfalls cascading down over his arms and torso. Oh, and what a delicious torso it is.
    Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m not wearing any panties.
    His muscles are long, lean and defined; his stomach is ripped with washboard abs—I’ve never seen anyone so . . . imposing and remarkable.
    And he’s covered in tattoos. Collages of ink adorn most of his skin. His left arm is a canvas, with a Celtic pattern winding around his forearm; several sugar skulls climb up a ladder of black tribal lines leading up to a skull and crossbones, all guarded by a faceless grim reaper under a hood. They’re all in black and white and surrounded by roses and thorns. Ripped terrycloth from a motel towel covers the bite he received saving me, catching the blood.
    His right arm is cloaked with mythological gods and goddesses. I recognize the Egyptian god Anubis, guardian of the dead, and Osiris, god of the underworld—the detailing, color and work is incredible. Freya, the goddess of warriors, has prime real estate on his upper bicep and shoulder—she’s exquisitely done; long flowing robes, battle helmet and hair like spun gold—she watches over the rest. More gods and goddesses wearing Greek, Roman or Native American dress are represented, including Athena, goddess of war, but I don’t know who the rest are. A river flows between and around them. A black tribal scorpion is etched into his right bicep—its tail dripping with venom—I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and assume it represents death.
    Ryder’s front and sides, spilling over to his back, have been reserved for words—written in everything from simple script to gilded cursive. I’d love to take a moment and read what they say. A dagger with a jeweled hilt lays across the lowest part of his abdomen and peeks out from beneath the tuck of the motel white towel.
    And oh, how I would love to graze my fingers over those fine lines and broad strokes of ink.
    The centerpiece, the tour-de-force, is an amazingly ornate set of wings—Egyptian in style—that span his thick chest, cradling two hearts in an hourglass.
    By the time my eyes start to travel back to his, I’m hot and wet in all the right places . . . and he knows it.
    He smiles wide with sexy, playful mischief.
    Way to handle the heat, Rachel! I turn away but the damage is so done.
    “Oh,” he says, “you found the clothes.” Could be my imagination, but he sounds disappointed.
    “Yeah, great fit. How’s the arm?”
    “Want to see?”
    Oh, what I’d like to see! “Yes.”
    He sits his shapely, hard ass on the table and situates himself so he has a clear view of his arm in the wall mirror.
    “Pass over the Everclear and the floss.”
    I don’t know what those muscles are that are right above the ass, but they kind of dimple on the very lowest part of the back—yeah, those on him are like artwork on a statue at a museum—like Michelangelo’s David.
    On his back, he has an enormous tattoo of a sword—the hilt spans across both shoulders, while the blade glides to the last vertebrae of his spine and is surrounded by tribal lines.
    His nudity is making me . . . not think straight in this very sobering situation.
    I snag the bottle and plastic square of unflavored dental floss off the counter and bring them over to him.
    He picks up the bottle and unscrews it with his teeth, spits out the top, and takes a swig. The action makes him grimace. “God, that’s awful shit!”
    So fast, as if he doesn’t want to actually think about doing it, he spills the alcohol over the wounds in his arm.
    “MOTHERFUCKER!” he shouts.
    His whole arm flexes violently, his jaw clenches and his muscles strain as he physically struggles to handle that kind of ugly pain.
    Sympathetically, I blow gentle, cool air over his arm. A moment later his body visibly relaxes. I pick up the cloth and blot at the excess mix of blood and