Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) by Heidi Joy Tretheway Read Free Book Online Page A

vodka. I need more vodka.
    “Why orange? On your toes?”
    I shake my head to clear the cobwebs from my mind. “It’s my favorite color.” Also, that’s the only color of polish I can find among my stuff right now and I can’t afford a new pedicure. I hope the rest of my nail polish ended up in one of the boxes Blayde packed when he threw me out of his place last month. Sooner or later, I’m going to get them out of storage and into a real apartment.
    Tyler hits a sensitive spot on my instep and I moan involuntarily. Oops. His expression sharpens and his hands still, but they don’t release my feet in his lap. His hand caresses my calf and I don’t know what to make of it—is he interested? Is he exploring?
    I can’t tell whether we’re in the Friend Zone or if it’s something else. He keeps touching me, but it isn’t the lusty grope I’m expecting. He’s just … touching, and with each touch I find myself more and more attuned to his frequency.
    I want him. I want to feel his hands on me beyond my knees and my feet—oh, God, does he have a foot fetish? But then, would that mean he’s into me?
    My resolve to keep this journalist-to-musician interview platonic has drowned in vodka and I’m sure I have enough notes to form a cohesive story tomorrow. I pull my feet from Tyler’s hands and scoot on my knees over to where Tyler sits on the couch.
    “That felt fantastic,” I purr, and I throw one knee across his lap to straddle him. My dress stretches higher on my thighs and I plant my hands on his shoulders. Tyler stills and I try to read his expression. “I don’t want you to stop.”
    I don’t just mean the foot rub. I stretch my neck forward to bring my face close to his and I hear his breathing shallow. I know I have an effect on him and I move even more slowly, savoring it.
    But why isn’t he responding? Instead of running his hands up the back of my thighs or grabbing my ass, his hands are still on the couch, motionless on either side of my legs.
    I ignore Tyler’s hesitation and bring my lips closer to his, smelling a little beer and maybe basil from our dinner. The tip of my nose touches his cheek and I pivot my mouth, reaching for his lips.
    They’re soft and yielding. I press deeper into him, my tongue teasing the corners of his mouth, my breasts pressed to his chest. I hear a noise from his throat, maybe a groan, but he hesitates.
    I buck my hips and that’s the last straw—his hands are suddenly on me, sliding across my back and around my waist as he pulls me into a breathless kiss. His lips are hot and hard on mine and I want to drink him in, devour him. But in the next moment, his hands have changed course and he’s pulling me away from his mouth.
    Wait—what?
    “Stella. Hang on here.” I can see Tyler fighting for control and I’m struggling to breathe normally too. I’m in his lap, his arms were around me and I can feel his erection pressing against my very damp panties.
    He shouldn’t be pushing pause right now when every sign points to play. Or fast forward! Even slow-mo, if that’s his style. But pause?
    “Stop,” he commands. My hips are still moving against him of their own free will. Oh, God. Stop. That’s the kiss of death.
    “Seriously? Stop?” My face is flaming with humiliation and I climb off Tyler’s lap and grab my shoes, trying to shove them on my feet as fast as possible. “Whatever you say, Tyler. At least you made up your mind. You’ve been sending mixed signals all night.”
    My voice says I’m angry with him, but I’m really just mad at myself. First I decided to keep it professional, just do the story after he’d offered me access. Then his touch—it was the kneecap that did it—lights me on fire and I throw that very sane plan out the window.
    Then I have two or three more shots to further fuck with my resolve. And then, the foot rub. Tyler has a secret weapon.
    So I’m angry because Tyler pushed me past my limits, even though I was the one