By the time Cole finishes and wipes me clean, I’m flushed, breathing hard, and buzzing with nerves and heat.
Cole steps back, peels off his gloves, and finally turns the small hand mirror toward me. “There you go.”
I look down. A single, elegant phoenix in clean black line work, wings half-spread, tail curling like flame, rising from a faint swirl of ash at the base. Small, fierce, perfect. Rebirth. Strength. Fire that doesn’t die.
My throat tightens. It’s not his name. Not club property. It’sme, the way he sees me. The way he’s always seen me. I blink fast, eyes stinging. “Lucky…”
He leans over me, thumb brushing my cheek. “You like it?”
“I love it.” My voice cracks just a little. “It’s… it’s perfect.”
He kisses me slow, deep, cold lips turning warm against mine, tasting like snow and something deeper, something that feels like forever.
Cole clears his throat, already packing up. “I’ll leave you two.” He slips out, door clicking shut behind him.
Lucky’s gaze rakes over me, sprawled on the chair, jeans still low on my thighs, fresh ink on my hip, chest rising and falling fast under my sweater.
He stands slowly, looming over me, hands braced on either side of my head.
“Looks good,” he rasps, thumb brushing the edge of the fresh tattoo through the film. “Looks like you.”
I reach up, fist his cut, pull him down until his mouth crashes into mine again. “Take me home,” I whisper against his lips. “I want to feel you everywhere tonight. Including right over this new mark.”
He growls low in his throat, scoops me up off the chair, jeans still half-down, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck.
We step out of Black Iron Tattoo into the cold February night, snow flurries thicker now, swirling under the streetlights like ash from a dying fire. My jeans are back up, zipped, but the fresh ink on my hip throbs faintly under the clear film. Cole’s careful work, the phoenix rising in clean black lines, still warm from the needle. Every step reminds me it’s there. Every brush of fabric against it reminds me why Lucky chose it.
He walks us straight to his bike, gloved hand firm around mine, and swings his leg over first. When he looks back at me, eyes dark under the brim of his beanie, there’s no question in them. “Get on,” he says, voice low and rough. “We’re not going to your house tonight.”
My pulse kicks hard. “Your place?”
He nods once. “My place.”
I don’t argue. I climb on behind him, thighs bracketing his hips, arms wrapping tight around his waist. The leather of his cut is cold against my chest, but his body heat seeps through immediately. He fires up the engine, deep, throaty rumble that vibrates straight through me, and pulls out of the lot without another word.
The ride to his house is short, Jackson’s small enough that nothing’s far, but the cold wind bites at my face, makes my eyes water, makes every inch of exposed skin sting. I press tighter against his back, chin tucked to his shoulder, breathing in leather and smoke and him. The phoenix on my hip pulses with the bike’s rhythm, like it’s alive, like it knows what’s coming.
He kills the engine in the driveway, swings off, then reaches for me. His hands are steady under my arms as he lifts me down like I weigh nothing, setting my boots on the ground. Before I can take a step he’s already moving, grabbing the seat, scooting back so there’s room, then hooking one arm around my waist and pulling me right back onto the bike.
This time I’m facing him.
My thighs spread wide over his lap, straddling the tank, knees braced on either side of his hips. The bike’s still warm from the ride; the heat seeps through my jeans and into my core. Hishands settle on my ass, pulling me flush against him so I can feel exactly how hard he is through both our layers.
“Hi,” I whisper, half-laughing, half-breathless.
He doesn’t answer with words.
His mouth crashes into mine, hungry, claiming, tasting like snow and smoke and the victory he still hasn’t let me forget. One gloved hand slides up my back under my jacket, the other cups the nape of my neck, tilting my head so he can deepen the kiss. Tongues slide, teeth graze, and I’m already rocking against him without thinking, grinding down on the thick ridge of his cock.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to rasp against my lips, “You lost tonight, firecracker. That means you’re mine to play with however I want right here. Right now.”
My breath hitches. “Outside?”
“Porch light’s on. Fence is high. Snow’s covering everything else.” His thumb strokes the fresh film over the phoenix on my hip through my jeans. “And this mark? Still warm. Still new. I wanna feel you come apart while it’s throbbing under my hands.”
Heat floods me. I nod, small, frantic, and he growls low in approval.
He unzips my jacket slow, deliberate, peeling it off my shoulders and letting it fall to the snow beside the bike. Cold air bites my arms, my collarbone, but his mouth is already on my neck, open-mouthed kisses, sucking marks into the skin he exposed last week. Then he fists the hem of my sweater and drags it up and over my head in one smooth pull.
