Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8) - J.R. Ward Page 0,5

nodded. "Cool." He grabbed a black pen and started making a picture box of elegant swirls around the simple design. "What are these things, by the way?"

"Just symbols," Qhuinn answered.

The artist nodded again and kept sketching. "How's this?" All three of them leaned in.

"Man," Qhuinn said softly. "That's vicious." It was. It was absolutely perfect, the kind of thing John would wear on his skin with pride--not that anyone would see the Old Language characters or all that spectacular swirl work. What was spelled out was not something he wanted widely known, but that was the thing with tats: they didn't have to be public, and God knew the guy had plenty of T-shirts to cover up with. When John nodded, the artist stood up. "Let me get the transfer paper. Copying it onto you won't take long and then we'll get to work." As John put a crystal jar of ink on the counter and started to take off his jacket, Blay sat on a stool and held out his arms. Given the number of weapons John was packing in his pockets, it wouldn't do anyone any good for him to just hang his shit up on a hook.

When he was shirtless, John settled into a forward lean position, his heavy arms resting on a padded bar stand. After the tattoo artist got the image on the transfer paper, the guy smoothed the sheet over John's upper back, then peeled it off.

The design formed a perfect arch across the span of muscles, taking up all of John's considerable acreage.

The Old Language really was beautiful, Blay thought. Staring at the symbols, for one brief, ridiculous moment he imagined his own name across Qhuinn's shoulders, carved into that smooth skin in the manner of the mating ritual.

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Never going to happen. They were destined to be best friends . . . which, compared to strangers, was something huge. Compared to lovers? It was the cold side of a locked door.

He glanced over at Qhuinn. The guy had one eye on John and one eye on the receptionist--who had locked the front door and come to stand by his side.

Behind the fly of his leathers, the bulge he was sporting was obvious. Blay looked down at the mess of clothes in his lap. One by one, he carefully folded the undershirt, the long-sleeve, and then John's jacket. When he glanced up, Qhuinn was running his forefinger slowly down the woman's arm.

They were going to end up ducking behind that curtain over to the left. The front door to the shop was secured, the curtain was fairly thin, and Qhuinn would do the woman with his weapons on. So John would be safe at all times . . . and that itch would get scratched.

Which meant Blay would only have to suffer hearing them. Better than the full bifta. Especially because Qhuinn was beautiful to watch when he had sex. Just . . . beautiful.

Back when Blay had tried to do the hetero thing, the two had tagteamed a number of human females--not that he could have recalled any of the women's faces, bodies, or names.

It had always been about Qhuinn for him. Always.

The nibbling pain of the tattoo needle was a pleasure. As John shut his eyes and breathed deep and slow, he thought about the intersection of metal and skin, how the sharp entered the soft, how the blood flowed . . . how you knew exactly where the penetration was. Like right now, the tattoo artist was directly over the top of his spine. John had a lot of experience with the whole slice-and-dice shit--only on a much larger scale, and more as a giver rather than a receiver. Sure, he'd been cut up out in the field a couple of times, but he'd left more than his fair share of holes behind, and like the tattoo artist, he always took his equipment to work with him: His jacket carried all kinds of daggers and switches, even a length of chain. Also a matched set of just-in-case guns. Well . . . all that and a pair of barbed cilices.

Not that he ever used those on the enemy.

No, those weren't weapons. And although they hadn't been cinched on anyone's thigh for almost four weeks now, they weren't useless. Currently, they functioned as a kind of fucked-up security blanket. Without them, he 30

felt naked.

Thing was, those brutal ties were the only tie he had to the one he loved. Which, considering the