Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4) by Susan Fanetti Page B
Authors: Susan Fanetti
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off his dick.
He stood and pulled that limp thing off. On his way to her bathroom, he bent down and grabbed his jeans from the floor. If they were going to have that talk, he needed at least some kind of armor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Trick was in the bathroom, Juliana, still breathless, pulled on her shorts and top. She picked up the empty packet from the coffee table and took it to the kitchen, throwing it away in the can under the sink.
Then she leaned against the counter, closed her eyes, and tried to make sense of the past…however long since she’d opened the door.
Opened the door. Yes, she’d definitely done that. To what, though? What had Trick brought into her home? Did she want it?
She wanted him, that she knew.
“You okay?”
Opening her eyes, she turned to find him standing at the entrance to her little kitchen. He looked wild and unbearably hot. He was shirtless—he always seemed to be shirtless when she felt most confused and vulnerable to him—and his hair was tousled around his head. She’d done that, grabbing at him, clutching him. Sweet Mother Mary, that sex had been fantastic. Maybe even life-changing.
“Yeah,” her voice cracked, and she coughed her throat clear. “I’m good. You want a drink?”
“Got whiskey? Or beer?”
“No, sorry. I’ve got wine, though. A couple bottles of red, and a white in the fridge.”
“That’s okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll just take water.”
Embarrassed that she didn’t have a more, she guessed, ‘manly’ drink to offer him, she nodded and got out two glasses, then opened the freezer for ice. “Oh! Vodka! I have vodka!” When she turned to wave the bottle of Absolut at him, he was right behind her, so close that she brushed his chest.
“Vodka will do.”
He stepped back to make room for her, and she poured them each a glass of Absolut. She handed him his and watched as he drank the whole glass down at one go. The muscles of his throat flexed as he swallowed, and she reached out a finger and traced a line from his jaw, through his beard to the notch at his collarbones, and then over his shoulder. His body was a wonder: lean and sharply defined, the skin taut over perfect contours of every muscle she could name and several she couldn’t. And covered with art, like a living gallery. “You have so many tattoos. Do they all mean something?”
He reached past her, leaning close, and set his empty glass on the counter. She hadn’t even had a sip of hers yet. “Yeah, they all mean something.”
“Like what?” She opened her hand and eased it over his chest, down to his ribs. “What does this one mean?”
On his left side, taking up most of the real estate there from just below his nipple to his waistband and wrapping around to his back, was a black horse—black because it seemed to be made of iron, with fittings of brass. Like a literal iron horse, caught at full gallop. Its mane was a series of chimneys, each one shooting fire. Its fierce eyes were fire, too, and steam billowed from its nose and mouth. It was darker than most of his others, the colors brilliant and the lines pristine. The detail was minute. All of his tattoos were beautiful in some way, but that piece was legitimately a work of art.
“That’s a new one. The patch of the Horde is the Flaming Mane. It’s a take on that.”
Down his ribs on his right side, he had the word HORDE inked in a line, in a font Juliana thought of as ‘tattoo type.’ The horse was much more interesting. “It’s like steampunk.” She looked up and saw a pleased grin grow across his handsome face.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Encouraged and interested, she took a sip of her drink and let her free hand roam over his art. On the outside of his left bicep was the first she’d ever taken note of: Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt . He had several text tattoos over both arms; this piece was nearly bald in
He stood and pulled that limp thing off. On his way to her bathroom, he bent down and grabbed his jeans from the floor. If they were going to have that talk, he needed at least some kind of armor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Trick was in the bathroom, Juliana, still breathless, pulled on her shorts and top. She picked up the empty packet from the coffee table and took it to the kitchen, throwing it away in the can under the sink.
Then she leaned against the counter, closed her eyes, and tried to make sense of the past…however long since she’d opened the door.
Opened the door. Yes, she’d definitely done that. To what, though? What had Trick brought into her home? Did she want it?
She wanted him, that she knew.
“You okay?”
Opening her eyes, she turned to find him standing at the entrance to her little kitchen. He looked wild and unbearably hot. He was shirtless—he always seemed to be shirtless when she felt most confused and vulnerable to him—and his hair was tousled around his head. She’d done that, grabbing at him, clutching him. Sweet Mother Mary, that sex had been fantastic. Maybe even life-changing.
“Yeah,” her voice cracked, and she coughed her throat clear. “I’m good. You want a drink?”
“Got whiskey? Or beer?”
“No, sorry. I’ve got wine, though. A couple bottles of red, and a white in the fridge.”
“That’s okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll just take water.”
Embarrassed that she didn’t have a more, she guessed, ‘manly’ drink to offer him, she nodded and got out two glasses, then opened the freezer for ice. “Oh! Vodka! I have vodka!” When she turned to wave the bottle of Absolut at him, he was right behind her, so close that she brushed his chest.
“Vodka will do.”
He stepped back to make room for her, and she poured them each a glass of Absolut. She handed him his and watched as he drank the whole glass down at one go. The muscles of his throat flexed as he swallowed, and she reached out a finger and traced a line from his jaw, through his beard to the notch at his collarbones, and then over his shoulder. His body was a wonder: lean and sharply defined, the skin taut over perfect contours of every muscle she could name and several she couldn’t. And covered with art, like a living gallery. “You have so many tattoos. Do they all mean something?”
He reached past her, leaning close, and set his empty glass on the counter. She hadn’t even had a sip of hers yet. “Yeah, they all mean something.”
“Like what?” She opened her hand and eased it over his chest, down to his ribs. “What does this one mean?”
On his left side, taking up most of the real estate there from just below his nipple to his waistband and wrapping around to his back, was a black horse—black because it seemed to be made of iron, with fittings of brass. Like a literal iron horse, caught at full gallop. Its mane was a series of chimneys, each one shooting fire. Its fierce eyes were fire, too, and steam billowed from its nose and mouth. It was darker than most of his others, the colors brilliant and the lines pristine. The detail was minute. All of his tattoos were beautiful in some way, but that piece was legitimately a work of art.
“That’s a new one. The patch of the Horde is the Flaming Mane. It’s a take on that.”
Down his ribs on his right side, he had the word HORDE inked in a line, in a font Juliana thought of as ‘tattoo type.’ The horse was much more interesting. “It’s like steampunk.” She looked up and saw a pleased grin grow across his handsome face.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Encouraged and interested, she took a sip of her drink and let her free hand roam over his art. On the outside of his left bicep was the first she’d ever taken note of: Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt . He had several text tattoos over both arms; this piece was nearly bald in
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