Chapter Twenty-One: Lila
The next afternoon, Dare assembled his inks in back while I paced nervously. I wasn’t anxious about the art or even the pain, but whether I’d make it through the hours of work without tackling and fucking him. He hadn’t started and already my body hummed with desire despite the very satisfying orgasm I’d experienced less than an hour ago.
The squeaky noise of the cart coming down the hall meant it was time to start. Dare, freshly shaved, stood tall in a Harley tee and faded jeans, almost identical to the first time I’d seen him.
“You ready?” His gaze smoldered when he looked at me.
I wasn’t the only one worked up.
“Strip naked and climb on my table. Willing for whatever I want,” he commanded, and the fire crackling in him shot through me.
“You got it.” I shucked out of my shorts and tank.
His gaze raked me and sensual approval showed in his expression.
“Lay down with your head in the cradle. Don’t wiggle, no matter what I do.” The teasing challenge in his voice lit me up.
Once I was settled in place, his hand caressed the curve of my ass and I fought not to move. But during the routine prep work I zoned out like I normally did.
“Starting the outline.” The iron buzzed behind his words.
I didn’t move. My man marked me in the most personal, perfect way. Pain flared as the needle bit me and left ink behind. I floated away from the pain and bobbed in a sea, kind of like a trance. Distant from my body, my thoughts and feelings floated with me.
“You okay?” Dare’s voice made me surface from the haze.
“Yeah, great.” My throat was dry, making my words hoarse.
“Take a break, drink some water.” He patted my ass. “The outline’s done, I’ll be adding color and detail now.”
I sat up and stretched, meeting his gaze, but he didn’t focus on me. The art in his mind captivated him. I slipped off the table, letting my fingers brush his abs when I moved past him to the fridge. I drank a long pull from my water. Glancing at the clock, I was surprised an hour had passed already.
“You ready?”
I’d give a lot to be able to read his mind right now, so I’d know what he experienced when the art took over. “Yeah.”
The buzz of the iron lulled me back to the trance. This one focused on my biker as scenes with him floated through my mind—at the party, on his bike, the way he demanded numbers, our date, the way we combusted in bed. Then what he said. It still bothered me the way he’d put himself down when I’d lost it at his place. I’m not sure why it bugged me, other than the fact he appeared so confident. Why was he worthless? Bad for me? And why was he so serious?
His words came back to me: Don’t do reports. He hated paperwork. Hated travel. Hated texting.
An idea started forming in my mind but I dismissed it, even if everything fit. I’d never seen Dare with a book or magazine for that matter, but then that could be half of America. The chicken parmesan made up my mind, in the end. The casual order and the strange expression, such minor details, convinced me the most courageous man I knew was illiterate.
He couldn’t read.
I tested my new theory from different directions. It fit. The pain of the gun mixed with my pain for him.
How would I feel if I couldn’t read? Stupid. Worthless. Afraid. Alone.
My alpha man faced every damn challenge with a fearlessness that impressed me and frightened me at times. Yet if I was right, then those tests were nothing compared to navigating our world unable to read.
I had enough baggage for a small village, so I was the last person to judge someone else. I loved him, and whether he could read didn’t change it. Dare strode through life with a confidence I’d never have, and I wouldn’t steal even an ounce of it by mentioning something he’d hidden deep. Something that had to have scarred him, even if he navigated fine now.
Reading had saved me when I was a teen. I escaped into other people’s lives to forget about my misery.
How had Dare escaped?
Many of us were headed for jail until the Brotherhood changed our path, was what Jericho had said. What was Dare’s path before the Brotherhood?
The buzz of the gun stopped and my shoulder burned more now that I wasn’t distracted by my thoughts.
“Go over and look at this,” he said.
I stood in front of a large mirror on the wall. He held a smaller mirror behind me while I studied the artwork. Beautiful. Full of orange, red and yellow, the fire flickered and smoldered on my skin. The dragon, fierce and confident, danced in the fire. Without a doubt this dragon was the predator, devouring the fire.
“How did you? You did exactly...I love it.” I turned and hugged him tight. He’d captured my rebirth in all its fiery celebration. I’d witnessed his artistic talent, but now I understood more. He read me and drew what he saw inside me on my skin—a testament to this time in my life.