his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.
I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.
I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.
Come over.
Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...
Doing something downright obscene.
To a very large penis.
That has...
Ink?
I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?
He has to be exaggerating.
I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.
Really.
I will.
Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.
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