I’m that guy.

Camilla Landry rustles against me, the silky fabric of her overpriced lingerie slipping along my bruised rib. The porcelain perfection of her skin is even more innocent against the colorful ink dotting my own. It’s demure meets damage, pampered meets punctured. 

So, yeah, it’s obvious I’m that guy. Dominic Hughes. Her attempt at rebellion. Her bid to see what the other side of the tracks feel like. I’m okay with being used because, from where I’m sitting, the other side of the tracks have never looked so good.

He’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the sweatpants that hang just below his chiseled hips and the other leans on the frame. The tattoos that mark his flesh are vivid against his bare skin, making the blues of his eyes shine.

He flashes a lopsided smile my way. “Took you long enough.”

“I don’t drive like a bat out of hell,” I laugh, stepping past him. “Did you shower already?”

“Yeah. I smelled like gym floors.”              

“As long as you don’t smell like gym whores,” I say, setting the bags on the table in the kitchen.

His laugh is contagious and I feel myself smiling. A set of arms cage me in from behind, grasping the table on both sides of me. My skin breaks out in a shiver as his lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear.

His face buries in the crook of my neck and he takes a long, leisurely breath. “You smell so good.”

“Keep doing that,” I say, relaxing my head onto his chest.

“What?”

“Talking with your mouth against me.”

“You like this?” he asks all breathily so that each word whispers across my skin.

My eyes fall closed as I relish in this moment of nothing but him. “No, I love this.”

“Can I tell you a little secret?”

“As long as you keep talking, you can tell me whatever you want.”

He chuckles, dotting kisses up and down my neck. “I love this too, feeling your body give up the fight of the day and let me take over.” He turns me in his arms so I’m facing him. “I love that you trust me enough to let your shoulders sink out of that perfect posture you walk around with.”

As he reaches up and undoes the elastic in my hair, I watch his features soften. He moves carefully, unwrapping the tie from the twisted mess in my locks, careful not to pull.

“There,” he says, cupping the back of my head through my long tresses, “that’s better.”

“You don’t like my hair up?”

“Not like you had it. You look to lunching-y,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Lunching-y?”

“Yes,” he grins.

“You are too cute.”

“You are too fucking sexy.”

Reaching up, I swipe the pad of my thumb over the cut above his eye. He flinches, but just for a second. “What happened?”

“Bond’s right hand.”

“I hate him.”

“So do I,” he snickers.

“Let’s get some ice for it.”

He leans in, his brows tugging together. “Let’s not.” His eyes hood as he takes me in, his tongue darting out and wetting his lips. My knees weaken, my body humming with delight at his reaction.

“I want to take care of you,” I whisper, although that’s really on the backburner now. “Let me baby you.”

Instead, he lifts me up and places me on the table. My stomach clenches as he positions himself between my thighs, my sundress curling at my waist. I ring my legs around him, pulling him so close that the soft cotton of his sweatpants rubs against my opening.

He looks down. “You aren’t wearing panties.”