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“What do you think?” asked Scotland, turning off the machine and straightening. The machine wasn’t even warm, and he was far from sated. Clint stared at the spot, his forehead scrunched in what looked like confusion.
“It didn’t really hurt.”
“Nope.” Scotland smiled, his worry easing. “This needle is for linework, and I went pretty shallow. It’s a good spot, too. Most people can take it okay.” Most didn’t get turned on by it, though.
He could see how Clint’s pupils had dilated, his tongue coming out to wet his lower lip.
“Do somewhere else.” Clint wiggled in his seat, his eyes decidedly bright under the spotlight. He couldn’t seem to look away from the small red area that was no longer bleeding. “That was nothing.”
“Let’s try your wrist. Nobody likes that.” He turned Clint’s hand over, smoothing a finger over the delicate skin on the inside of his wrists. There were little blue lines he could see through his skin, each vein disappearing as they traveled up his arm.
He could remember getting his own wrist done and how he’d flinched every time the needle made a pass. There was very little between skin and bone in that spot, and the needle seemed to go straight through.
He prepped the spot, switching out the tip for something with a little more bite. He settled on something curved that he would normally use for shading with rows of tiny points grouped close together. “You won’t have any endorphins going for you right now, so this might hurt like a bitch. Tell me to stop or say red, and I’ll stop right away.”
He waited for Clint’s nod before he started the machine, bringing the tip to his pale flesh. Clint’s gasp hit the air as soon as Scotland touched him, but he didn’t pull back, sweeping along as if he were shading actual ink into Clint’s skin. Letting out a breath, he passed over the spot a second time, digging in to plant the imagined ink a darker shade.
When he pulled the needle away and met Clint’s gaze, regret instantly sank into him. What am I doing? This was supposed to be a trip to get Clint off the farm for the first time, not an excuse for some kind of scene.
Clint’s lips were parted and wet, the flush on his cheeks matching the one on his neck. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression decidedly unprofessional.
“That’s that,” said Scotland, snatching his hand back before he did something he regretted. He was in too deep and close enough to lose himself if he wasn’t careful. And Clint wasn’t helping, squirming in the chair and staring at the small mark as if it were a brand.
“One more spot.”
Scotland paused, just about to rip the gloves from his hand. “Clint.” He let out a sigh. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t betray their budding friendship. Clint was hurting terribly and Scotland had been so close to breaking him without even knowing it. I won’t risk you.
“Please,” said Clint. “It’s okay. I promise. Just one more.”
This is such a bad idea. He was struggling to keep his hands and lips to himself as it was.
“I’ve heard that the ribs are the worst spot.” Clint moved his hand, lifting the edge of his shirt. “If you don’t mind the scars.”
Mind them? “You’re beautiful,” said Scotland. Hopefully, that wasn’t over the line. “That’s not a come-on, it’s a fact. Your scars are another part of what makes you you. They are unique in this world and like a form of art to themselves. When I look, it’s because I’m trying to see the little details—the edges—that you try to hide.”
Clint paused, fiddling with the edge of his shirt for a moment before finally tugging it all the way up. He was in good shape, with only a bit of padding that probably couldn’t be avoided working at a bar for so long. “Are you sure that’s not a come-on?”
“Positive.” Scotland swallowed, unable to tear his gaze away from the little dips between Clint’s abs or the dusting of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. “Let me find the right spot.”
He prepared the lower part of Clint’s ribs just above his belly. He had to lean close, the smell of Clint’s body mixed with antiseptic making his mouth water. He’d done ribs before, but it had never been like this. The touch had never been electric, making his skin prickle and the hair on his arms rise up.
He bit his lip as he brought the needle to Clint’s skin, digging in as if he were placing the darkest shading. Clint’s gasp morphed into a moan, his stomach jumping as he clenched.
“Shhh. Stay still,” said Scotland softly, bracing a hand on Clint’s belly to soothe him. “Just a little bit more.” He moved the needles along his side until he met the bump of the next rib. It was the same place where the edge of a scar lay, the skin pink and shiny.
He gentled his touch as he reached it, barely skimming it with the needle. Clint’s moan turned into a pained cry, his stomach muscles seizing beneath Scotland’s hand. Stay still, love. He didn’t dare say it.
Something else moved that was nestled against Scotland’s arm. He hadn’t even known he was that close to Clint’s groin until his hard cock was shifting against him at every tiny movement Clint made.
Tugging himself away, he flicked the switch off, silencing the machine before he pulled his gloves off. He paused the music on his laptop, cursing the silken notes as he silenced them.
“What did you think?” he stared at the wall, the devil grinning back at him as the flames licked at his body. There was a mirror next to him that would have a view of the chair, but he didn’t dare look.
Clint cleared his throat, the leather creaking as he shifted. “Let’s get groceries. You were right. That hurt like hell.”
Chapter Thirteen
Clint
