Free Reborn by Nicole Camden Page A

were deep-sea dark.
    He did as instructed, even though it seemed to make him angry, the muscles in his arms tensing with more than the effort to lift her. He lifted her higher than necessary, so that she dangled before he set her down slowly on the polished wood. Her soft bottom touched the surface and her legs spread of their own accord. It took everything in him not to shake as he removed his hands from under her arms, partly because she was so fuckin’ pretty, and partly because he wanted to strangle her . . . just a little, just enough to scare her for making him want her so much, but he’d promised her, so he dropped his arms and glared, waiting to hear what she wanted.
    She licked her lips as she looked at him, her eyes drifting down his shoulders to his tattooed arms to the hard-on that was clearly visible in his jeans.
    “Take off your shirt,” she ordered, and he obeyed immediately, ripping it off over his head and hurling it to an unknown corner.
    All his tattoos were bared to her eyes and she studied them as if he were an exhibit in a museum, her eyes drifting over the Celtic knots on his arms, the fantastic beasts on his chest, and the name Mandy with a date below it, tattooed over his heart. She traced it with her fingertip.
    Her lips parted, in surprise, he thought, and something else.
    “Why do you get the tattoos?” she asked, pulling away and drawing her T-shirt over her head.
    He barely heard her question. She was wearing a lace black-and-nude-colored bra that was sheer enough to show her pebbled nipples.
    “Because I like them.”
    She tilted her head and held one arm over her chest, blocking his view of her nipples, but pushing her ample, creamy white breasts in delicious mounds over her forearm.
    “That’s not an answer.”
    He gritted his teeth. “No pussy is worth this.”
    “You can’t back out now.”
    He didn’t want to back out. For fuck’s sake, he hated this and yet his dick was so hard he thought he might come in his damn jeans. “I don’t know. They’re like . . . good luck, ye know? My first was the book with the open pages . . . here.” He pointed to a tattoo on the inside of his forearm just below his elbow, and it was indeed a rough drawing of a book, with the pages fluttering open. He dropped his arms again and stood rigidly, as if she were holding a gun on him.
    Lille found both the tattoo and his unwillingness . . . charming. Damn, the man had to be deeper than a shot glass to get a tattoo of a book, but she hadn’t seen much evidence to the contrary.
    “Come closer,” she ordered.
    He did, approaching as if magnetized, his eyes on hers. She dropped the arm covering her chest and his gaze dropped. He braced his hands on the bar on either side of her legs but didn’t touch her.
    “You fucking women.” He shook his head.
    “Mary said she dominated you,” Lille murmured, and ran her hands through his thick hair.
    He laughed shortly. “Well, now, I didn’t want to hurt yer girl’s feelings.”
    He turned his head into her palms, letting her stroke him, and she used her nails to scrape along his scalp. In the background, Beyoncé’s “Drunk in Love” set a slow, grinding pace in the room.
    She leaned down. “I think you liked it.” She bit down on the top of his ear, hard enough to hurt.
    His hands moved to the tops of her thighs in the leggings and dug in.
    She immediately pulled away. “You can’t touch me yet.”
    He moved his hands back where they were on either side of her and the muscles in his forearms budged warningly, tattoos dancing.
    Distracted by how beautiful they were, she ran her hands over his arms. His skin was smooth, but not completely hairless, hardly surprising considering his stubble.
    She leaned in close, almost to his lips. They were full and flush with blood—probably like his dick. She kissed him, very gently, brushing her lips against his, featherlight and teasing, just as she would kiss his dick . . . later.
    She