Page 50 of Playboy’s Purgatory

He grins, his gaze staying on his work as he finishes getting everything ready. “When I asked my dad for a tattoo gun, I was far too young to be asking for something like that. Still, he knew I was drawing all the time and that some brothers had used my designs for their tattoos. He didn’t buy me some ready to go machine.” His words are full of the amusement of a good memory, “He handed me a box full of parts and told me everything in it would make a tattoo gun; no more, no less.”

“You had to put it together,” I gasp and stare harder at the machine he’s picked up in his hand.

“Not this one,” he says it like he’s assuring me. “Snake’s first tattoo, the snake, was done with it.”

My eyes widen and somehow the grin on my face grows even wider. When the hell did this man start making me smile?

“Okay,” he takes a deep breath like he’s the one about to have an inked needled dragged across his skin, “are you ready?”

I nod and settle deeper against the chair, letting my body relax. “I’m good.”

“Tell me if you need a break at any time,” he implores me and starts up the machine.

The buzzing fills the air and then he begins. Even though it does hurt, there’s something meditative about it. I don’t notice it at first, but it lulls me into some sort of dreamscape.

Even though I’ve been fortifying my walls against him, the man is trouble. I don’t open up much, but more than I thought I would when I walked in. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to.

Everything is surface level topics, but I can practically feel him filing away every fact he learns about me like he’s putting together a capital case.

I’m not sure how I feel about it.

When I stand up hours later, I’m stunned at what has started to form on my body, a piece of something that will, eventually, be whole. It’s not complete, far from it.

But it’s a start.

The small smile on Playboy’s face when I leave, without waving and barely saying goodbye, makes me wonder if he sees it as a start too. But what, exactly, are we beginning?

CHAPTER 12

PLAYBOY

I have to take a second to myself when Lara pulls off her shirt to reveal the bikini top underneath. Do I wish it was a lace bra that’s a little see-through? You better fucking believe it. Still, it’s probably better that it’s not.

That would be far too distracting. Fuck, even thinking about it is a problem. My dick is fucking throbbing and begging to be set free.

Now is not the time.

My head is far too close to her breast as I lean in slightly to angle the stencil just right to cup her shoulder and move down her arm. I’ll freehand in more vines and leaves to stretch toward her wrist to make sure everything is balanced and feels complete.

I can already see this tattoo coming together. It’s going to be gorgeous.

When I get the stencil in place, I lean back and watch Lara’s face as she steps up to the mirror. I don’t care about where it is, I’ve already put it there. What I care about is her reaction to it.

Watching is better than just listening when a first reaction is usually unguarded and honest. And taking in Lara’s face isn’t exactly a hardship.

The woman is beautiful.

I can read her, even when she’s trying to hide her emotions.

“It looks good,” she answers my silent question.

After standing, I stride toward her and stop right behind her. The large mirror captures both of us in the reflection. When I gently grab her wrist, she startles slightly but doesn’t pull away.

I make sure my movements are slow, giving her time to stop me. I gently roll her shoulder to angle her arm and let go before gliding my hand over her hip and up along her back. My hand creates a curve that brushes her ribcage before meeting up with the stencil at her shoulder.

“That’s the part I’ll draw directly on your skin,” my voice is huskier than I’d like it to be.

I’ve been trying extremely hard to be professional with Lara. It doesn’t come easily but diving into educating her about tattooing and all the procedures helped me not lose my cool during our first session.