About Hot Ink
When troubled tattoo artist, Walsh Jackson, finds himself the prime suspect in the gruesome double murder of his ex-wife and shop rival Bob Grim, he sets out to clear his own name. He follows a trail of dead tattoo artists to the underbelly of the Hungarian mafia, and they want one thing from him: The exact location he found the vial of ink he wears around his neck. They tell Walsh that tattoo artists will continue to die if he doesn't take them to the source. But Walsh can't take them, he can't tell them anything about the vial. Wherever it came from, Walsh knows one thing for certain: the vial of ink comes from the part of his life he can't remember. Alone and out of options, he turns to FBI Special Agent Bridget Ash, lead investigator of the tattoo parlor deaths, and a hot one-night stand he was hoping to run into again. Blonde, long-legged, and aloof, Walsh can't keep his mind off her, but something gnaws at him, telling him she may not be what she seems.
Excerpt
Walsh's cock throbbed. The way she said it, then kiss me, burned through him. Without hesitation, he grabbed her around the waist and yanked their bodies together. He crushed his lips against hers and breathed in her scent. He hungrily explored her nakedness until his hands found purchase around her smooth, tight ass. He squeezed and she let out a long, heavy sigh, encouraging him. She gasped between short darts of tongue, teasing him with her mouth. Her hand then slid from his chest to rest on his crotch. She stroked him outside his jeans, taking in his shape and size. He moaned in her ear as she shoved her hand inside his jeans and pumped his length. If she kept that up, she was going to undo him before too long, and that wouldn’t have made a good first impression, he was sure of it.
“Let’s go my office,” he whispered.
Her hand stopped. She backed up until her naked ass touched the tattoo chair. “This will do fine,” she said as a sultry smile washed across her face. Her silky blonde hair hung tasseled, falling just below her ample breasts, and it drove him wild.
“My lucky day.” Walsh undid his jeans and stepped out of the denim heap that slid to the floor. He then gathered that long hair of hers in a loose grip at the back of her head. She sighed with approval. His other hand trailed down her breasts. He squeezed one nipple, then the other, both responding to his touch. His hand then slid down her flat navel until he reached the moistened folds between her legs. He found her most sensitive spot with ease and massaged it with soft circles. She moaned and hissed with pleasure. He watched her beautiful face as she writhed against his hard working fingers. Then decidedly, as if taking control, she smacked his hand away.
“Not yet,” she said.
She backed him up, and spun around so that he was now leaning against the chair. She then fell to her knees.
She licked his swollen head and a deep gasp filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled before she drank the entire length of his throbbing shaft. She plunged her head deep on to his cock. One. Two. Three, he counted. So deep that Walsh feared for her. She released him and teased the swollen head before stroking him, like a piston, with her eager mouth.
“Feel so good,” he hissed.
Bridget stood, her green eyes boring into him: raw, hot, and very much in control. “Tell me,” she said, and took to her knees again. One hand rested on his rock hard abs while the other stroked his cock. “Tell me how it feels, Walsh.”
He gathered her hair in his fist and watched as his cock slowly disappeared into her hot mouth. “Watching you suck me off,” Walsh said, throaty and low-pitched. “It makes me want to knock the bottom out of you.”
Hot Ink
One
If Walsh Jackson hadn’t walked into Zeek’s Bar and started a fight with Bob Grim, he would have missed the girl in the pencil skirt and stiletto heels standing outside his tattoo shop.
He hadn’t wanted to
When troubled tattoo artist, Walsh Jackson, finds himself the prime suspect in the gruesome double murder of his ex-wife and shop rival Bob Grim, he sets out to clear his own name. He follows a trail of dead tattoo artists to the underbelly of the Hungarian mafia, and they want one thing from him: The exact location he found the vial of ink he wears around his neck. They tell Walsh that tattoo artists will continue to die if he doesn't take them to the source. But Walsh can't take them, he can't tell them anything about the vial. Wherever it came from, Walsh knows one thing for certain: the vial of ink comes from the part of his life he can't remember. Alone and out of options, he turns to FBI Special Agent Bridget Ash, lead investigator of the tattoo parlor deaths, and a hot one-night stand he was hoping to run into again. Blonde, long-legged, and aloof, Walsh can't keep his mind off her, but something gnaws at him, telling him she may not be what she seems.
Excerpt
Walsh's cock throbbed. The way she said it, then kiss me, burned through him. Without hesitation, he grabbed her around the waist and yanked their bodies together. He crushed his lips against hers and breathed in her scent. He hungrily explored her nakedness until his hands found purchase around her smooth, tight ass. He squeezed and she let out a long, heavy sigh, encouraging him. She gasped between short darts of tongue, teasing him with her mouth. Her hand then slid from his chest to rest on his crotch. She stroked him outside his jeans, taking in his shape and size. He moaned in her ear as she shoved her hand inside his jeans and pumped his length. If she kept that up, she was going to undo him before too long, and that wouldn’t have made a good first impression, he was sure of it.
“Let’s go my office,” he whispered.
Her hand stopped. She backed up until her naked ass touched the tattoo chair. “This will do fine,” she said as a sultry smile washed across her face. Her silky blonde hair hung tasseled, falling just below her ample breasts, and it drove him wild.
“My lucky day.” Walsh undid his jeans and stepped out of the denim heap that slid to the floor. He then gathered that long hair of hers in a loose grip at the back of her head. She sighed with approval. His other hand trailed down her breasts. He squeezed one nipple, then the other, both responding to his touch. His hand then slid down her flat navel until he reached the moistened folds between her legs. He found her most sensitive spot with ease and massaged it with soft circles. She moaned and hissed with pleasure. He watched her beautiful face as she writhed against his hard working fingers. Then decidedly, as if taking control, she smacked his hand away.
“Not yet,” she said.
She backed him up, and spun around so that he was now leaning against the chair. She then fell to her knees.
She licked his swollen head and a deep gasp filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled before she drank the entire length of his throbbing shaft. She plunged her head deep on to his cock. One. Two. Three, he counted. So deep that Walsh feared for her. She released him and teased the swollen head before stroking him, like a piston, with her eager mouth.
“Feel so good,” he hissed.
Bridget stood, her green eyes boring into him: raw, hot, and very much in control. “Tell me,” she said, and took to her knees again. One hand rested on his rock hard abs while the other stroked his cock. “Tell me how it feels, Walsh.”
He gathered her hair in his fist and watched as his cock slowly disappeared into her hot mouth. “Watching you suck me off,” Walsh said, throaty and low-pitched. “It makes me want to knock the bottom out of you.”
Hot Ink
One
If Walsh Jackson hadn’t walked into Zeek’s Bar and started a fight with Bob Grim, he would have missed the girl in the pencil skirt and stiletto heels standing outside his tattoo shop.
He hadn’t wanted to
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