Still… There’s a pull.Feral.Wrong.
Impossible.
I shove it down hard.I’m not into him.
“Do you have a design in mind?”I force my gaze to his.
“I want a biomechanical jaguar.Full-sized.”He gestures at the rock-hard muscle from his knee to his hip.“With electrical circuits for veins and its claws gripping an anatomical heart covered in feathers.”
“A heart with feathers?”I narrow my eyes.
“You heard me.”
“Sounds personal.”
“It is.”He smiles, cold and secretive.
I nod slowly, understanding too well.The jaguar is his namesake.The feathered heart, obviously Dove’s.The circuits, his hacker skills, his need for control.
The whole thing is fucked-up and obsessive, exactly like him.It’s also clever, unapologetic, and badass.I hate myself for appreciating his vision.
Without another word, I sketch the design, blending sleek fur into intricate circuit patterns and claws sinking deep into the symbolic heart of a bird.Each line feels like a confession, each stroke a betrayal.
When I present the outline to Jag, his gaze softens with satisfaction, barely perceptible but undeniably there.
“Perfect.”He drops onto the chair.
After I prep my station, I don my gloves and straddle the stool, rolling it close to where he sits.Right up to his exposed, muscular thigh.
The room holds its breath as I grab a razor.
Why are my hands shaking?I shave strangers every day.
Resting a palm on his leg for balance, I drag the blade along the curve of his thigh and clear away the fine dusting of hair.The razor glides in slow strokes, and each pass leaves a clean, bare path behind it.His skin is smooth beneath the steel, the muscle taut underneath.
I focus too hard on the task.Maybe because Jag focuses too hard on me.The intensity in his stare makes the back of my neck prickle.
That done, I grab a sharpie and sketch directly onto his skin.No stencil.I rely on instinct and muscle memory.
Hard flesh flexes beneath my pen, sending a jolt through my nerves.
“Higher,” he murmurs.
With his black briefs in the way, I stretch the material to the side and add more detail farther up.Muscle leaps under my touch, but I don’t look at his face.I can’t.
“Higher,” he repeats.“I want the piece to wrap over the hip, reaching into the oblique.”
I can’t move the fabric high enough for what he wants.I pause, about to tell him it won’t work unless—
In one fluid motion, he hooks a thumb into the waistband and lowers his underwear, letting it hang around his knees.He’s completely exposed, utterly shameless.
Sweet suffering Christ.
I flick my gaze away before I get a good look at his dick.
“Problem?”he asks.
“Only if you start moaning.Cover yourself.”
