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All I can do is live every day as if it might be the last breath of freedom I’m ever permitted to take.
Putting the final touches of the shading on the underbelly of the serpent, I can feel the weight of the man’s stare. He hasn’t volunteered his name, and something tells me that is one hundred percent intentional.
Then I’m wiping the last of the inky residue off to clean the artwork, and I’m pleased to see it's not very red at all. He’s going to heal beautifully. The fine black lines and shading look gorgeous against his skin tone, and even if I never see his face again, he’ll forever carry some little part of me imprinted onto him.
Maybe a lover of his will caress those lines each morning when they wake up beside him.
Perhaps she’ll run her tongue over them as she moves down his body before taking his cock into her mouth and sucking him down.
Oh, fuck. Now I’m flustered and speechless and imagining the velvety feel of this man’s dick on my tongue.
My eyes snap up to meet his, and his piercing blue stare is right fucking there. Looking down his strong nose at me with cool indifference.
That’s when my brain decides to wake the fuck up, and from this angle, he seems somehow familiar. But for the life of me, I can’t pick why. Maybe I’ve seen him in the news, or in an article online somewhere? He’s obviously powerful and wealthy…
He clears his throat, and that jolts me out of my haze.
“Let’s get you wrapped up.” I nearly fucking bite my own tongue as I stumble over the simplest of words. You always think they’re joking when people say you can get tongue-tied around someone, but here I am with my tongue forming the shape of a pretzel inside my mouth.
Applying the clear adhesive square to cover his new artwork requires more touching of his obscenely sculpted torso, with the outside edge of the plastic covering extending onto the side of his abs. Christ, they’re rock hard and indented beneath my fingers as I smooth the adhesive bandage against his warm skin, and my greedy eyes drop straight to the v pointing at his pants.
I’m being the world’s least professional tattooist in the history of forever.
So I do a very inelegant maneuver to slide off my stool and yank the disposable gloves off with a loud snap. Tossing them in the trash, I quickly wash off my hands in the corner sink and dry them on a paper towel. All the while giving myself a strict lecture.
When I turn back around, the ab-show has been put away, and he’s doing up the last of his shirt buttons. This time, he leaves the top two undone, and I notice his navy blue tie is tucked inside the matching suit jacket he’s got folded on the chair beside him.
He must be fucking with me because he then proceeds to roll his white shirt sleeves up his forearms. Slowly and excruciatingly, he tucks the material in on itself, giving me the most pornographic show of my twenty-eight years.
This entire fucking situation calls for an immediate date with my vibrator once he leaves and I can lock the door.
My phone chimes over on the counter, and that snaps me out of whatever trance I’d fallen into. He’s busy collecting his jacket and pulling out his own phone from the inside pocket, so I take the opportunity to flee and put a large slab of wood between my body and his.
It might be pathetic, but girl’s gotta have something to defend herself in the face of such potent masculinity.
As he strolls over toward me, I’m babbling about details like not getting the tattoo wet and how to rebook in case he needs any touch-ups done once everything has healed. It's my standard spiel and I don’t really hear the words I’m saying. My mouth is moving and apparently there are sounds coming out.
I give him a little tub of aftercare ointment to put on and ring up the total—adding a generous surcharge because fuck it; I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to cushion my bank balance a little above the red line this week. This enigmatic man can front Em and me our favorite sushi dinner, followed by gelato on the riverbank.
“Is that all?” His icy tone cuts across my chatter. He’s thumbing the screen of his phone and ignoring me completely now.
Okay. That was definitely rude.
My mouth forms a firm line. Turns out all rich dicks are the same. Entitled assholes who think they can buy their way out of any situation and that money solves everything. Including having a shitty personality.
“Yes.” My eyes do their best impression of shooting daggers, while my face does the smiling thing.
With his other hand, and without taking his eyes off his phone, he tosses a black, elite-looking credit card onto the counter. It’s one of those ones with an all matte finish, without any details on it. The kind that only the filthy-richy-rich have.
A credit card that comes with no limitations, I suspect.
The allure of how attractive he was all of a few minutes ago shrivels up. He’s got the personality of a doorknob, it would seem, not to mention the manners of a knife. So I reach out and slap the credit card against the screen and rue not adding a few more zeros onto the final total.
He wouldn’t even have noticed.
But that isn’t my style. And besides, I don’t even know if I like the idea of taking this man’s money now anyway. He probably kicks puppies to earn his squillions.
I hand him back his card, and he finally looks up from the phone in his large hand.
