Chapter Nine.

I want Penny more and more by the second.

The vision of her naked flashes through my mind. I imagine her skin, licking it, tasting her, salty and sweet. She's got her arms above her head. I'm holding them there, pinning them against the wall. She couldn't move even if she wanted to. Her legs are closed but I push my knee in between them, force them open, bring it up, make her gasp, make her long for my kiss again, long for every bit of me she can get.

I run my fingers through the buzz of her pubic hair. I hear her breathing, fast and shallow. I see her cheeks, flushed and hot. I look into her eyes, desperate, yearning.

She tells me she wants me to make her come. She tells me she wants me to f.u.c.k her until she screams. She doesn't use words... she doesn't need to. I know it.

I shake myself out of my imagination.

Penny and I walk to the elevator that will take us to Juice, one of the most exclusive clubs in Melbourne. As the doors slide open, and as she walks into it with me behind her, I devour her a.s.s with my eyes, and catch her scent on the air. She smells great. It's not perfume or deodorant a I don't even think she's wearing any a it's her.

It was hot in that warehouse, with so many people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and all those bright lights. No doubt she was sweating. Being able to smell her is turning me on.

I feel blood pumping into my c.o.c.k, and when I look in the reflective doors of the elevator, I can see the hint of an outline of myself through my slacks.

And I'm thinking to myself, I hope she notices.

"G.o.d, you can feel the ba.s.s even in here," she says. She's got her patched messenger bag over one shoulder, and is fiddling with the zip nervously.

I meet her eyes in our reflection, but she looks away. I wish she wouldn't, because looking into her eyes is like opening a channel of energy; it zaps me, makes my heart beat fast, makes me antic.i.p.ate. Usually I can tell what I'm antic.i.p.ating, but not with her.

She's different.

She's not just falling into my arms. She's not pressing herself up against me in the lift, grinding her hips against my groin. She's not biting at my lower lip or sucking on my ear lobe or whispering the things she wants me to do to her in bed. She's not breathing onto my face, or doing her best to look seductive.

She's just standing there, closed-off, shoulders drooped, and unenthusiastic. She won't meet my eyes. She acts like she doesn't like me, that she doesn't like what she sees.

It's clear that isn't true.

Penelope is nervous, uncomfortable. This is not just her first fight, but her first club. I'd also bet money she's never been with a boy before.

Odd for a tattoo artist, going by the stereotypes. But then again, she doesn't seem to fit any. I wonder idly what she'd have to say on that topic.

The elevator doors open, the booming ba.s.s greets us, and the flas.h.i.+ng lights strobe over us.

She's out of her element, instantly and impossibly more uncomfortable. She stiffens up. She grips her bag. She picks at the skin of her thumb with her forefinger.

I'm a fighter. I notice people's hands.

As she steps out of the lift, I place my hand on the small of her back, curl my fingers around her hip. That makes her feel better, I can sense it, but already her eyes are wandering to the dance floor. The girls dancing are s.e.xy, confident, and know how to work their bodies. They're barely wearing anything at all. Their skin s.h.i.+nes.

Her eyes flash to the bar, and she sees half a dozen guys doing shots; they're loud, boisterous, shouting 'bro' at each other and pumping fists and slapping a.s.ses. They're barking and woofing, and Penelope... she is wilting.

Then she turns around, and doesn't meet my eyes.

"I need to-"

"There's a balcony on the thirtieth floor of this building," I say. "It's private, but I know the security guard and he'll let us out there."

She looks into my eyes.

"Tell me what you'd like to drink, and we can go up there, sit down, just you and me. Get away from the music, the crowd."

After a moment's consideration, she nods. "Do they have any champagne?"

I grin. "Let me check."

I walk up to the bar and order a bottle of Verve Cliquot, and come back with two gla.s.ses hanging from my fingers. She presses the elevator b.u.t.ton, the doors slide open, and I notice a distinct bounce in her step as we walk in.

"Hey, Pierce!"

A guy holds the doors open. It's somebody who thinks he's my friend.

"Who let you in here?" I ask. I don't even smile.

He sidles up to me, lowers his voice. "Up for some Charlie?"

"No," I tell him.

"Come on, mate. I got my boys here and they'd really like to meet you. Big fans."

I lean closer to him, beckon his ear. He points it toward me. "I don't give a f.u.c.k," I say. I turn around to leave, but he grips my arm, stops me.

"Where are you going, bro?"

I look down at his hand. He lets go instantly.

"f.u.c.king touch me again," I growl.

"Look man, I don't want any trouble." He's backing up now. "Just thought you might be up for a b.u.mp or two. It's on me, mate. Really, I'd be honored."

"Leave," I tell him.

"Alright, I'm going."

"No," I say. "This club. Leave it."

Now his expression changes. He's getting amped. "What?"

I look toward the bouncer by the lift. The bouncer nods, and within seconds has the guy locked up with his arms behind him. The p.r.i.c.k is forced out the fire exit.

The elevator doors slide shut. I catch Penny smiling in the reflection, and there is an unmistakable look of relief on her face.

"Who was that?"

"n.o.body I know."

"What, the bouncer owe you a favor or something?"

"No," I tell her. "I'm one of the owners of this club. Bought in last year."

The expression on her face is that of slight puzzlement.

"I'm getting into business now so that when I'm too old to fight, I'll have something." I explain. "And in the underground, you get old fast and hard."

"Good for you."

"You don't approve?"

"Clubs just aren't my thing."

"Well, that's why we're leaving it."

Chapter Ten.

Pierce pops off the champagne bottle cork, and lets the froth spill off the edge of the balcony.

"There could be someone down there, you know."

"Oh, there probably is." He peers over. "Yup, there's people down there."

I go to the balcony, and look over. The line to his club is right below us. Some people are looking up now. They put their palms out, checking if it's raining.

I hold back a laugh, and say to Pierce, "It's like you can't help but to be a p.r.i.c.k."

"That's called charm, Pen."

He pours me a gla.s.s and hands it to me.

"You drink much?" he asks.

"No. And I don't need babying," I tell him, frowning. "It's just a gla.s.s of champagne."

He shrugs. "So, what are you in Melbourne for?"

"How do you know I'm in Melbourne for anything?"

"You're American. You're here for a reason."

I lick my lips. "I'm here to do an apprentices.h.i.+p."

"So you're not yet a tattoo artist."

"No, not technically. I'm here to train to be one."

"You like tattoos?"

"I like the art, the meaning. I like the idea of people wearing their skin as an expression of themselves."

"Are you any good?"

"Yeah," I say, grinning. I take a liberal sip from my gla.s.s. It actually tastes far better than I thought it would. It's my first time having champagne. I don't know the brand, but Veuve Clicquot sounds pretty fancy.

"I think I'm pretty talented. I'm not being stuck-up or anything, just that I know how to a.n.a.lyze my own talent. I've spent a lot of time studying drawing technique and all that."

"So, what, you opening your own shop?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. I've got to apprentice for an established artist, first. They need to vouch for me to get my license. Then I can open my own shop."

"When do you start?"

"I've got an interview tomorrow," I say.

"Think you'll get it?"

"I hope so."

He grins. "What did you think of my tattoos?"

"I didn't notice them," I lie.

"Bulls.h.i.+t. Let me tell you something."

He gestures at me to sit in one of the expensive-looking chairs on the balcony. I do, and he sits after.

"Tell me what?"

"When I first step into the cage, I instantly notice certain things."

"Like fighting is similar to art. Please."

"Fighting is an art, Pen. I notice whether he's a lefty or a righty. I notice which leg he puts his weight on. I notice if he's strong in the thighs, or strong in the calves."