AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Sure." I bite my lip. Borrowing a sweater is a girlfriend thing. An I like you thing. But I guess that particular cat is out of the bag.
He knows I like him.
But does he like me? Does he want a fuck or a friend with benefits or a girlfriend?
My stomach twists as he disappears into the office. A moment later, his footsteps move into the main room. He slings his navy-blue hoodie around my shoulders.
It's warm and soft and it smells like him. Like his shampoo. Clean and masculine and beachy.
His fingers brush my neck as he pulls his hand to his side. "You need tea or something?"
"No. Sorry. Do I look—"
"In the clouds? Yeah. Shake it off, sunshine. Our client's here in ten."
"Ours?"
"You're my shadow now. This is a water color tattoo. New technique."
"A female client?"
He chuckles. "Yeah. She's bringing her boyfriend to hold her hand."
"Oh." It's common. Women usually bring moral support. Men tend to come alone.
His bright eyes find mine.
I stare up at him. "So, we're…"
"I was drunk and stupid. Don't worry about it."
"Oh. Right." I study his expression, but it doesn't give me a clue to his intentions.
The suite is tiny. Especially with the client's boyfriend on the other stool.
I'm a foot from Dean. Less.
He's in the middle of the tattoo, but my body doesn't care. It begs me to touch him. To stop him. To do whatever it takes to get my clothes off and his hands on me.
I press my palms into my quads. Focus on the soft fabric of my black jeans. On the way my nails curl into the denim.
When I'm calm enough to concentrate, I bring my gaze to his right hand. I focus on the way his fingers curl around the tattoo gun. On the way his forearm flexes and relaxes as he works.
The tattoo takes an hour. I barely make it through the check out.
As soon as I can, I rush to the bathroom. But washing my hands in cold water isn't enough. Splashing my cheeks, forehead, and neck isn't enough.
I'm burning up.
I'm not sure how I survive our second tattoo. The appointments are back-to-back. No time for lectures on technique. Or teasing. Or staring at him like I'm desperate to get him naked.
This is a geometric design. It's cool, modern, trendy.
Dean is his usual funny, charming self. He turns the flirting off—he always does when a woman brings her boyfriend.
He doesn't ask about my panties or my night or when I last touched myself. He doesn't suggest a game of ten fingers or truth or truth or tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.
It's weird. But then it isn't. Not really. We had two appointments like this last week.
