Rebel Ink Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Laura Wright

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Sweet ’n Spicy Designs by Jaycee DeLorenzo

  Editor: Julia Ganis, JuliaEdits.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Self-Professed Hot Brunette from the Bar

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  The Bride and the Bachelorette

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  The Girl Who's Wanted to Fuck Charles Vincent Since High School

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Lisa

  Vincent

  Available Now

  He’s such a prick.

  A total dick.

  A bastard.

  And yet…I giggle softly to myself as he flips me onto my stomach, wraps his tatted hand around my wrists and thrusts inside me. He’s really big, and I gasp and press my face into the folds of the black sheets of his bed. That’s right, dolls. Black sheets. White pillows. Red room. Graffiti on the walls. Las Vegas penthouse.

  And another girl in the mix.

  In fact, her stiletto heels are bracketing my shoulders right now.

  “Ass up,” Vincent commands.

  “But I want to see what you’re doing to her,” I pout on a muffled moan.

  Instead of answering me though, he slams into me four times, so hard I lose my breath. Not that I’m complaining. I turn my head to pull in air, and come face to face with one of those silver stilettos. The heel is digging into the mattress as she moans above me. I can’t get enough, and clearly neither can she. What was her name again? Megan? Maggie? Miz Come-Fuck-Me-Heels?

  I grin through my sharp intake of breath.

  Though I can’t see her anymore—mean badass boy and his demands—I know she’s standing over me, her pussy pressed to his face. It was so fucking hot to watch I nearly came. That’s why he flipped me. He doesn’t want me to come. Told me I can’t.

  And I always listen to Vincent.

  The tall, inked and pierced, skinny-ripped sex god with black eyes that eat you up nearly as good as his tongue can—who’s so completely addictive, and who has the most perfect cock I’ve ever seen.

  That’s right. Just seen.

  Not touched—or sucked.

  I’ll never understand it. What guy in his right mind wouldn’t want a girl to blow him? Or at the very least, pump him off with her very skilled hand? But that’s why we all like Vincent so much, isn’t it?

  He’s not in his right mind.

  Maybe it’s a superpower. The no touch, no suck rule. Maybe that’s the secret to how he can go all night without exploding.

  I grin broadly to myself, then gasp as he slides out of me.

  “Noooo,” I complain. Too empty.

  So if I turn and wrap my hand around his cock and guide it back in where it belongs, he’ll kick me out of this bed, right? My pussy clenches at the thought. Nope. Not gonna chance it. Oh. Fuck. Yes. There you are. He slides in again, deep—really deep—and stays there, grinding circles around my sex.

  I pray he doesn’t leave me again. At least not until I get off. Vincent gives the best orgasms. It’s like an event with him, a blue ribbon to win every time.

  And he does. Wins.

  Owns.

  I was with him a couple of months ago. He’d given me head after a pretty tortuous ink session on my right hipbone. Spread me out and locked me in on his fucked-up chair at Wicked Ink. I don’t think he remembers though, because tonight, at the bar, when he told me and what’s-her-name to come upstairs with him, he looked at me as if I was new material.

  One long, lubed finger slides into my ass then, and well, that’s it folks. Ass fucking is my downfall. Maybe he does remember me after all. As he starts to move again, I hear him behind me, hear his mouth working that chick over. Wet, sucking, hungry sounds that make my nipples tingle and pussy cream. Soon I’ll be in the manic state. Unhinged.

  “I can’t hold this much longer, baby,” I moan.

  “Me either,” the chick above me cries out. Mia? Maren?

  “Put us both out of our misery, hot stuff,” I beg. “Please.”

  “And then we’ll work you over real good.”

  Good luck with that honey, I muse, my breathing so shallow I pray I don’t pass out. At least before I come.

  Vincent doesn’t say a thing. He never does, unless it’s a demand. What he wants, doesn’t want. But right now, I could care less. I’m so close. My entire body is one ready and willing nerve ending. I arch my back to give him better access. He still has my wrist in one of his hands, while the fingers on the other pump my ass gently.

  He’s fucking me and eating her.

  Behold the talent!

  I hear the chick come first—Oh god! Oh God! Oh GOD!—all of which sets me off. In my mind, I see her pounding her sex against his wet mouth, and wave after wave of mind-crashing heat and pleasure erupt inside me. I can do nothing but take what he’s giving me now because it’s so brutal. Deliciously brutal. Like something wild. His hand tightens around my wrist and his cock swells. I think he’s coming. Yet still he continues to pound.

  Raw talent.

  For thirty more fantastic seconds, he continues to thrust inside of me. No mercy. All pleasure.

  And then its over.

  Like a hot, thick blanket being ripped off my skin, he’s pulling out of me. I’m wrecked, chilled, exhausted. I crumple into the sheets. Don’t even attempt to turn around when I hear the chick say, “Where are you going, gorgeous? Your dick is still hard and my pussy is still wet.”

  Still hard?

  Shit.

  I’ll tell her where he’s going in a minute or two. When I catch my breath. I’ll tell her what I know—and all that I don’t about the super antihero that is Vincent. The delicious robo-cock, who gives and gives and comes—but never takes.

  Poor girl won’t have that cock in her tonight.

  Mmmm…maybe I’ll help her out. I sigh and turn over.

  Muffy, Mabel, Monica…

  I’m having the same dream I have pretty much every night. I’m dressed in white. Blinding white. The kind you wear when you enter heaven. The kind that hurts people’s eyes if they stare directly at you. And I can tell it’s hurting them because, the people standing in front of me? They’re putting sunglasses on. One by one. Like, all down the row. Except my mother, of course. No sunglasses for her. She refuses. Probably because they’re not Chanel. Or maybe it’s because of the tears she’s shedding. They’re streaming down her face, causing streaks in her makeup. But they’re not tears of emotion. I know this. Like, in my guts. They’re from relief. I’m done. Cooked. Not her problem anymore. Or the thing that causes her worry—makes her take those little oval white pills at ten and five every day.

  She can wash her hands of me. She can retreat to her white mansion by the sea and—

  White.

  Blinding white.

  It blinds us all.

  Wait…am I blind too?

&nbs
p; “Take off your sunglasses, Lis.” It’s Addy now. No tears. Just the voice of reason. She’s standing in front of me, a halo on her head. Her eyes, the blue one and the green one, are very clear. So clear. She’s clear.

  She’s always clear now.

  “I’m sleeping,” I tell her.

  “Fucking right, you are,” she returns with her typical brand of sarcasm. “For like ten months now.”

  Ten months? That sounds like a fairy tale. A princess asleep for ten months. Of course, that would explain things. The white light…the white dress…

  “You need to wake up.” Addy’s voice sounds so sharp. And it’s close to my ear. Or her breath is. Strange. The intense light is receding. Am I still wearing a dress? I look down. Yes. But it’s flecked with red snow. Oh. My mother’s gone. She’s run away. Far away. I’m glad for that—

  Hands grip my shoulders. Cold hands.

  They’re shaking me.

  “Dammit, Lis!” Addison hisses. “Wake the hell up. Now.”

  Darkness slams into the light and I jerk awake and sit up. I’m breathing heavy. Feel hot. I blink a couple of times. My room is my room, except it’s bathed in soft pink light. The lamp. I turn and—Jesus, Addison is standing next to the lamp near my bed like the flippin’ Grim Reaper. My heart drops into my stomach. “Oh my god.” I clutch my chest like I’m seventy and at risk for a heart attack. “What are you doing here?”

  “Later,” she whispers. “Right now we have to go. Get up.”

  I stare at her and don’t move. “What are you talking about? Is this the apocalypse? Are there Walking Dead heading for Montecito right now? Because that’s the only way you’re getting me out of this bed.”

  She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile, which is weird because we watch that show together while we Skype. Am I still dreaming? I pinch myself on the wrist to check. Dang! No. Not dreaming.

  Something slams into my face. It’s soft, but heavy.

  “Put on your robe,” she commands, “And come with me.”

  I pull the thing down and glance at the clock, the one I got for my twelfth birthday. It’s shaped like a chicken and bawks when the alarm goes off. “It’s four freaking o’clock in the morning.”

  “I know, grandma.” She rolls her eyes and comes over to the bed, rips off the covers. “You should be ashamed, Lis. Four o’clock in the morning used to be your favorite time of day.”

  I frown. “I’m not in the mood for a shame spiral, Addy. Now, what the hell? Why are you in my room? Why are you in Santa Barbara at all?”

  She chews her lip for a second like she’s thinking. “I wanted to see you. I miss you.”

  “Awww, well, that’s sweet and weird.” I pat the mattress. “So get in here, then. Kick off the shoes. Whatever you want to talk about can wait until the morning. Then you can just stay and help me with last minute—”

  “No. No sleep.” The Addy of Las Vegas, the one who is all kickass now with a job at a marketing firm and a hot, crazy, tatted boyfriend, comes at me, shaking her head. She grabs my hand and tugs. “Up.”

  This girl is still so new to me. I wish I was more like her. I think I used to be.

  “Okay,” I say, jerking my hand away from her. “Clearly, you’ve lost your shit.” I look up at her—like, really look at her. Tight jeans, black cami with a stylish red flannel over it and wedge boots. She’s totally put together. Even her hair is fab—relaxed fishtail braid over one shoulder. She looks gorge. I scratch the crown of my messy white-blond bun. “What’s this all about, Addy? You’re really freaking me out. Breaking into the house—”

  “I still remember the alarm code,” she says. “And the side door off the kitchen was actually open.”

  “Great. I’ll be keeping that tidbit to myself. Mom will totally fire Gloria if she hears.” I sigh. “You aren’t supposed to be here for three more days.”

  Her eyes flash with something then…something of the hiding variety, and she reaches out and grabs my hand again. “I just need you.”

  My gut does this fish-flop thing. I don’t like the look on her face. “Oh, shit. Did something happen? Is it Rush? Did he do something?”

  I’ve been waiting for this. Rush seems like a good guy, but then again look who he hangs out with.

  A flash of the dark, foul-mouthed tatted and pierced one slams into my brain. Get out. See the Do Not Disturb sign? That’s for you.

  “It’s not Rush,” Addy says. “It’s me. I have to talk to you, Lis. Please come out to the car with me. Just for a quick drive.”

  She can always make me cave. I love her ass too damn much. I stand up and stretch. “If you want to talk, we can go to the pool house or something,” I slip my robe on over my sweats and tank top, then re-work the bun on top of my head.

  “I need to drive. I know that’s crazy since I’ve been driving for hours. But…there it is.”

  “Oh…fine.” I sigh, tired and slightly annoyed, but I step into my UGG boots and head for the door. I mean, she is my bestie of all time.

  She follows me out of my room and down the long stretch of hallway, which is gently lit from inside the glass that’s built into the crown molding. We’re quiet as we descend the marble staircase. But honestly no one can really hear us in this part of the house. Our housekeeper and maid both sleep two floors above me in the west wing. And my parents have the entire east wing to themselves. But I still don’t want to risk it. They’re not too keen on Addy these days. Actually, they were never all that keen on her. Wrong side of the tracks—and by that I mean anywhere outside of Montecito and maybe, if they’re feeling generous, the Santa Barbara Riviera.

  Addy is parked in the very center of our circular driveway. Girl has grown some serious balls in the past year. And her ride confirms it. She drives a screaming hot Porsche now. A prezzie from her rich boyfriend. Which is good. She deserves it. She’s never known what money feels like. How good and safe and comfortable it feels.

  Or how hard it is to give up.

  The minute I close the car door and click my seatbelt into place, she takes off. Montecito is completely dead at this time of night. Dark and chilly, stars blinking in and out of the cover of trees. We hit the 101, which is Addy’s fave because it trails the ocean. Even at night, you can see the heavy black waves crashing against the rocks. The air is salty and cold, and I breathe it in to wake myself up.

  “So, what’s going on?” I ask. “What’s got you driving to the SB from Vegas in the middle of the night? Can’t be good.”

  “It’s not,” she agrees.

  Okayyy… I give her a minute or two to drop whatever bomb she’s holding, but when we pass the Summerland exit, my gut tenses. I roll up my window and face her. “We better be getting off in Carp and coming right back again.”

  She doesn’t say a word.

  My pulse speeds up a little. “Okay, whore!” I say. “Spill it or I’m going to…jump out of this car.”

  “No you won’t.”

  Course I won’t, but I’m nothing without my empty threats. Seriously.

  She chews her top lip a second, then just as we pass the first Carpentaria exit, she turns to me. “You’re coming back to Vegas with me.”

  I stare. Then I laugh. “Umm, no I’m not. I’m getting married in five days.”

  “Yeah, about that…” she begins.

  “Addy,” I start, my laughter dying a quick death.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Addy!”

  Just reaches over and hits the child safety locks.

  “What happened last night?” Rush asks me, about one fucking second after I walk in the door at Wicked Ink. He’s standing behind reception with Janie, whose eyeballs continue to track the computer screen.

  Smart girl.

  Or she couldn’t give a shit about my night.

  Again. Smart girl.

  “I got a customer coming in at ten,” I say, heading straight for my room. Don’t have time for this. Never do.

  Not that it stops him
. He’s been going all owner/manager on my ass lately. It’s bullshit.

  Five seconds inside my dungeon, and he’s there in the doorway. “You’re late. Again.”

  “It’s 9:50, Merrick,” I say, although I hate having to answer to him. About anything. Even more so lately.

  “We had a staff meeting at nine. You said you’d be there.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah, dickhead. You did.”

  “You wanna fire me?”

  Rush exhales all rough and pissed off. “Shit, man. This is getting old.”

  “Hey! That’s what Addison says.” My mouth twitches.

  Impervious to my real pointed insult that involves his girl, he comes all the way in now. Like I invited his ass. Which I didn’t.

  “I don’t want to fire you, V,” he says, dropping himself down on the arm of my red couch. “I want to know what’s happening.”

  I pause over my tray, take inventory. “Nada.”

  “Bullshit,” he presses.

  “Seriously. All’s cool, brother.”

  “I just don’t buy it. I know you, V.”

  I shake my head. Boy is so clueless. He knows what I want him to know. Nothing more. Nothing less. And nothing in between.

  “Did you knock someone up?” he asks.

  I snort and start wiping down my electric chair and restraints. Not that clients use the latter, but I like to give ‘em the option.

  “Doing some meth?” Rush continues to pester. “Blow?”

  “Fuck me,” I grind out.

  “Special K? Bath salts?”

  That last bit is his attempt at a joke, so I glance up from my tools of torture and toss him the brow. “You know my drug of choice, Merrick. P is for Pussy, baby. Can’t help myself, you know? It’s like a new crop just came in and I have to sample. Every night something different. Something better.” I sorta bow my head. “Sorry, man.”

  He stares at me, hard, for a just a second or two, then blows out a breath. “Fine. Whatever, manwhore. Just stop with the late shit, okay—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “Not sorry for the clock. Sorry for being such an epic fucking stud while you’re…you know, ball-and-chaining it.”

  He flips me off. “I know you’re not giving me the true scoop. You’ve been screwing your way through Vegas for five years, V. And most of Southern Nevada. Never made you perpetually late before.” His brows go up. His turn to mock my ass. And it’s some pretty good shit. “You getting old?”