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“I-I… hi.” It’s the only word I can summon, and it still comes out more husky than my voice ever is.
He laughs, a deep sound that emanates from his throat, and dips his chin in greeting before a taking a step forward. “Kim, right? First time?”
He scans my visible skin, and goosebumps dance over my flesh wherever his gaze lingers.
“Kim needed to pee.”Really, Beth?“I’m her sister.”
Another step.
I feel like he’s sniffing out his prey.
“You’re scared of needles,” he states matter-of-factly.
My eyes widen. “How did you know that?”
“Experience. I can smell the fear a mile away.”
I tilt my head back to meet his jade eyes, thick brows, straight nose, and even under the dark beard I can see the outline of a sharp jaw. If I were ever to get a tattoo, I’d happily let someone poke needles in me to draw his sculpted face on my skin.
I urge my thirsty eyes to stay on his because I know everything south of his face is equally as carved. My gaze falls but only for a split second, and sweet baby Jesus, what does he do for those shoulders? Carry his clients while he inks them?
“You’re a photographer?” There’s light amusement in his features, almost boyish, then he smirks and it’s all man.
Realizing what he means, I blush. “Oh. No, I just carry this thing around as a fashion statement.”
A thick brow lifts, and with the sound of his deep chuckle, I finally leave out a long breath. “I’m sorry. Please don’t listen to a word I say tonight. You’re right. I’m not good with needles. They make me nervous, and when I’m nervous I ramble. It’s not the needles exactly. It’s more the thoughts of the needles, and I work myself into a frenzy. This is the last place I should be.”
“I see what you mean about the rambling.”
My cheeks heat like I’ve been sitting too close to a fire.
Taking pity on me, he finally says, “Why don’t you take a seat?”
I nod, stepping around him, but when I finally get past his mammoth frame, I see the booth and the equipment set up on his tray.
I feel it immediately—the tingles in my cheeks and the blood rushing away from my face, pooling at my feet.
Don’t pass out.
Do not pass out.
I must sway because his tight grip is on my elbow, steadying me again. My mouth dries as I lift my gaze to look at him, and I’m not sure exactly if my reason for being dizzy is just the tattoo anymore. My hands tingle, pins and needles fluttering from the heat of his touch and radiating to my fingertips.
A frown draws his features tight, and as his eyes rake over my body, I shudder. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around myself, grateful for my denim jacket so he can’t see the goosebumps dancing over my skin.
His eyes, deep green with specs of dark brown are glossy in the second it takes for him to make sure I’m okay again. He swallows. I swallow harder.
He’s still touching me.
Why is he still touching me?
We both look at his hand wrapped around my elbow like it’s the only energy source in the room.
He drops his arm, his fingers flexing like he’s been burned, and I swear I still feel his touch like it’s branded there.
Slightly humiliated from my dizzy spell, I sway on my feet—this time on purpose—to distract myself while fidgeting with the camera between my hands.
“You good?” His tone is gravelly, coming from deep in his throat. I decide I like it. Fuck, I think I love it. A voice of all sin and a bite of playfulness.
