I didn’t have it in me to do anything besides stare at my brother’s ceiling while Lincoln went to the door to collect our meal. He brought everything into the living room and sank down onto the floor beside me, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table. When I didn’t join him, Lincoln curled his fingers around my wrist and pulled until I slid down onto the floor.
“What did Marshall think about you having sex with a man for the first time?” Lincoln asked.
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Because his opinion doesn’t matter?”
“Not about that,” I admitted, tearing open the foil on my gyro.
“Then why this?” he posed, glancing at me and reaching for a seasoned fry. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, swallowed, and waited.
“This feels like more of a lifestyle decision,” I muttered, but even as I said the answer, I could hear the absurdity of it. Lincolnseemed to realize because he didn’t say anything until he’d eaten at least ten more fries. “Does it bother you Silas is submissive?”
“No,” I answered quickly.
“Does it bother Marshall?”
I snorted. “No.”
“Then why would you being submissive be an issue? Why would you being with a man be an issue? And I want to remind you that both of those are personal choices that don’t impact anyone at all besides you and whoever your partner is.” He pulled a slice of beef off my gyro and ate it. “Or partners.”
“Just one.”
“For now.”
I groaned again, setting down my food and looking up again toward the ceiling. The setting sun outside cast the whole room in a wash of pink and orange, making Hunter’s maximalist style even more colorful. His apartment was the opposite of Marshall’s, closer to Finn’s, and still nowhere near mine.
“If you want someone to tell you this is okay, I’m telling you this is okay.” Lincoln set his hand on my thigh and squeezed. “It’s okay to be with a man, and it’s okay to do kinky things with a man. Hell, it’s okay to do kinky things with whoever you want as long as you’re being risk aware.”
I thought about Riggs giving me a safe word and me changing it…
I wasn’t ready to tell Lincoln about that.
I didn’t need to tell him.
Didn’t need to tell anyone.
It wasn’t Marshall’s life—it was my life. They were my choices, my decisions. I’d kept the Covington name, found the passion in my job again—even if I was distracted by a tattooer who didn’t let me touch him.
“If you want to see him again, I think you should,” Lincoln told me, glancing toward the front door as a key engaged the lockand a sliver of white light from the hall filtered in at Hunter’s arrival home and the end of my candid confession hour. “But if you want to keep seeing him, I want to meet him.”
“Trading Marshall’s approval for yours?” I teased, even though there was a bit of truth in it.
“Never.” Lincoln stole another piece of my gyro and grinned after he swallowed it. “I just want to meet the man who stole Smith Covington’s heart in one night.”
CHAPTER 16
RIGGS
Iwould never admit it to Damon’s face, but the artists he’d set up interviews with were all amazing. He’d also—probably deliberately—given me a mix of old school and new school tattooers of varying genders so I couldn’t tell him anything had been lacking.
Wednesday night after finishing up my last appointment, I slid my stool back toward the window and took stock of the shop. He was right, two would fit easy, three if I downsized my own area which I wasn’t necessarily inclined to do. It was my shop, after all, and I had given up so much to make it possible. Bringing in new artists wasn’t a necessity, but it would make my life easier.
I deserved that, didn’t I?
“Just make a decision,” I told myself, sliding back over to the counter where I had all the potential artists portfolios spread across the top.
Flipping open the black leather cover of the first one, I traced my fingertip over the ornate script work on the front page spelling out the artist’s name, Merrick. The second page of his book was a burst of sharp and bright colors, a huge dragon wrapping from his client’s elbow to shoulder. The proportionswere on point, the lines clean, and the color solid. Halfway through his book, my phone buzzed against my thigh. It took some work to fish it out of the pocket of my skinny jeans, but I managed. My heart immediately lodged in my throat at the sight of Smith’s name on the screen.
