Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,65

securely in the black for five years after I’d taken over. I wasn’t ever going to be much for fancy clothes or expensive restaurants—I was, and would always be, a t-shirt and pancakes kind of man. But having a comfortable home? Worth the expense.

“You live here,” Channing said. A statement and also a question.

“Yep. It is my, uh, not so humble abode. Want to come inside?”

“No. I want to sit in your truck all night and stare at a building,” Channing retorted dryly.

I love this man. It was an impulse thought, the kind that slides in like a dart before you know it’s there, but my whole body seemed to jolt with it, made electric with its truth. Well, goddamn. I was in trouble. But...in a good way. Maybe even the best way. I missed having this kind of trouble in my life, and I was about to show Channing exactly how much he was inspiring me.

“Okay, smartass,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “But I’m going to go inside.”

We both laughed and walked together to the lobby. Peter, the doorman, gave us a cheerful hello. Curiosity and awe were crackling off Channing, but he kept himself together until we were in the elevator.

“What the fuck?” he whispered. “I feel like...I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real-life doorman before.”

“Ah, yeah. It took some getting used to, but Peter is awesome.” Then, without further warning, I pulled Channing close and kissed him, enjoying seeing how our bodies looked pressed together in the large mirror back of the elevator.

Once again it struck me: I loved Channing. I loved how well we fit together. I loved the smooth, gorgeous, muscular shapes of his body. I craved the taste and smell of him. And, most importantly, I loved how he pushed me to be more, do more, and find my passion again.

The elevator dinged open and I led him to my door, unlocking it. Then I swung the door open and let him in.

He walked slowly as he took it in. Now, the building might be ritzy but my condo wasn’t enormous. It was a two-bedroom, one bath, 800-square-foot space that I’d turned into a home. The floors were marble, but I’d put large, plush rugs in most of the rooms. The walls were a light gray, made luminous during the day by the large picture windows. At night, like now, the distant city line became its own accent wall through the large glass.

All of my furniture was sleek black wood, and the wraparound couch and accompanying chair were dark, antique leather. On the wall was a sixty-inch TV, and on either side of it were custom built-ins I’d put in myself. On them were more photos of the tattoos I’d loved from my years at Get Ink’d, along with coffee table books of my favorite artists.

Channing walked through the space, his fingertips hovering over the surfaces of tables, chairs, shelves. “You have spectacular taste. This is so refined and yet...comfortable. It is very you.”

The compliment made me blush. “The real surprise is in the room to your left.”

He turned and gave me an inquisitive look before heading into the former guest bedroom. I followed, the smell of turpentine hitting me as soon as he opened the door. I loved the smell. Channing froze, his eyes on the mammoth piece I’d been working on for the art show. I was close to finishing it, but missing some details that he’d be able to help with.

“You did this?” he asked in hushed wonder. I stepped close behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, nestling my nose in his hair.

“Yep. Most of today was spent putting in the details.”

Channing and I were looking at a painting of his eyes. The long, black lashes had been stylized, and his eyelids and surrounding skin given a pop-art like covering, more dot-art than smooth realism. But the irises and pupils were done in painstaking realism, the tiny variations in blue magnified in exquisite detail.

“Those are my eyes,” Channing whispered. “But they look so...full of life.”

“Your eyes are the most beautiful ones I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into. And you make me feel more alive than I have in a long time.”

He turned in my arms, biting his lip. “But why? I didn’t think you liked painting anymore.”

“My old art professor reached out to me about an alumni show.”

At this, his brow wrinkled and his lip curled in anger. “The