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PS. Please tell me he has a lonely brother.
Inhale. Exhale. I count to four each time and pause for the same count in between breaths.
I’ve tattooed my fair share of gorgeous men and women. But none have left me in quite this kind of visceral mess. My palms are clammy as all hell as I set my phone aside and snap on my black latex gloves.
“Have you decided which one you’d like?” I nod toward the range of designs. Keeping my hands busy, I gather up my inks and cups on my workstation beside the tattoo chair and get my stencil paper ready.
“Yes.” That deep timbre to his voice makes my skin flicker a little.
God, Em was so right. Maybe I do need to go out and engage in some kind of action because the way I’m all bubbly and gooey over this complete stranger is messed up.
He shows me which one he’d like: a simple fine-line rose with thorned tendrils intertwining with a serpent. I get the stencil prepared.
While I do so, I take another chance to sneak a look at this man I’m about to ink a piece of my own artwork into. Objectively, he is handsome as sin. A little on the silent and broody side, but he exudes a dominant kind of energy that makes my pussy sit up and take notice.
And then this fucking asshole takes off his shirt.
2
There’s a half-naked man lying on the chair beneath me, and I’m biting my lip so hard there will absolutely be a bruise there in the morning.
Stranger-with-abs-for-days has got the kind of naturally even tan to his skin that conjures up images of long afternoons in an olive grove surrounded by the chirp of cicadas while he hand feeds you grapes. It’s the kind of warm, honeyed coloring people pay good money to try and achieve.
I could only ever hope for skin that looks as smooth and gorgeous as this.
Another unavoidable fact is that he’s all muscle in a way that I’m certain only comes from a diet of boiled chicken and leafy greens matched with forty hours a week spent in the gym.
My gloved fingers press against the skin covering his ribs, holding it taught as the needles fly. The only sound filling the studio is the monotonous, quiet buzzing of my machine. Some clients like to listen to music or bring their own headphones, but the two of us are sitting here, with only the night and ink for company.
Oh, and not to mention that ribs hurt. Like a motherfucker.
Yet, this guy is a stoic man-mountain. Not giving one ounce of a hint that this might be painful for him. I’ve even checked in multiple times to assess his comfort level, but all he does is grunt something that sounds like fine.
So now, I’m doing exactly as Emerald said. Straight up ogling the man.
He has other tattoos. A couple of other similar style designs wrapping his ribs on the opposite side. Plus a hawk with outstretched wings and talons across his pectoral.
Not that I should be looking at that part of him.
Nope. This is one hundred percent me, professionally focused on the side of his ribcage where I’m currently inking and wiping away the excess. Ink. Wipe. Repeat.
The longer the silence stretches on between us, the less I remember what it feels like to have a regular conversation. There’s so much testosterone coming off this man I want to melt into a puddle on the floor. Jesus Christ, I bet he has a big dick.
Foxglove Marlina Noire. Pull it the fuck together. Right. Now.
Back to lip biting and fragile attempts to stop imagining his cock, is where I go for the next hour.
I’ve been tattooing for five years now, with my little studio apartment being my safe haven and place of refuge for the past three of those years. Em was the one who started to help me find clients when I was still in the early days of finding my feet in the city. Between her PR clients, social media gigs, and photoshoots, there are always creative souls ready to drop wads of cash on fresh ink.
When I was finally able to put my deposit down on this cute little space, I sobbed all over her shoulder. Then we stuffed ourselves full of sushi and made a makeshift nest in the middle of the floor together, talking half the night, planning our dream futures.
A far-removed vision of what life might be, compared to the bleak reality I escaped from as a teenager. Some days, I feel the long shadow of my father creeping around corners, ready to snatch me back into his clutches. But I try to only look forward.
I can’t spend my life terrified that my past will drag me back down into the darkest depths.
He knows exactly where I am.
The fact he’s allowed me to remain free for this long is nothing short of a miracle.
