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Fucking hell, Dante.I open the text, trying not to think about the fact that he undoubtedly heard me masturbating less than seventy-two hours ago. I would hope he isn’t texting me aboutthat—but if there was ever going to be a man with the balls to do that, I would assume it would be a man like Dante Campano.
Hi, Emma. Want to schedule my next session.
I grit my teeth, letting out a slow breath through pursed lips. It’s as if he didn’t hear a word I said to him aboutexactlythis topic. Or, more likely, he just decided that none of it applied to him, because he’s a man who gets to do whatever he wants.
Money and power seem to have that effect on people. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never aspired to either, or hanging around those who have it. Enough to pay my bills and maybe take a vacation would be fine by me.
After giving myself a moment to calm down, I text him back.
Rico is still out. Text him and see when he’s going to be available for a private session. He’s not in the shop tonight, not sure when he’ll be back.
Thatshouldbe the end of it. But my phone vibrates a second later with another message.
“Popular tonight, hm?” Brendan cranes his neck to try to catch a glimpse of my phone, and I glare at him, turning away so he can’t see my screen.
“None of your business,” I tell him tartly, and he laughs.
“You look awfully flushed for someone who doesn’t want to gossip about whoever it is blowing up your phone.”
“It’s warm in the shop,” I retort. “And two messages is hardlyblowing up my phone.”
“Mhmm. We’ll see how long that conversation goes on for.” Brendan hops off of my chair, closing the lid on his leftovers. “Anyway, you could probably use a good lay. I hear it does wonders for your personality.”
“Is that what’s wrong with you? I thought you said Nicky was better in bed than that.” I try to refocus on the screen, hearing Brendan’s laughter fade as he walks into the break room that we never actually use to stow his food until he goes home. We always give each other shit, but just now, I’m less in the mood for it than I normally am.
I changed my mind about Rico. I’m happy with your work, and I’d rather have you do it.
Blinking, I read the text from Dante, and then read it again. A swell of mixed emotions rises up in me, too quickly for me to sort it all out at first.
My initial reaction—the reaction I think just about anyone in my position would have—is to be elated. Everything else aside, Dante is an important client. A client I was sent to out of the blue—and who is choosingmeover Rico, because he liked my work on his first session so much.
That’s huge. It’s huge for me—it’s huge for my future, if Dante passed my name on to others. It’s huge for my reputation in this city as an artist that someone like Dante would come back to after having me tattoo him.
It could change so many things for me. But immediately on the heels of that elation is disappointment, because I know how this works. Rico isn’t just going to surrender Dante to me as a client, even if it is his own fault that I had to be there for the initial session in the first place. There’s no way in hell that agreeing to what Dante wants wouldn’t make everything more problematic for me here, in the end.
I’m sorry, but I can’t.I text back quickly, before I can think too long about what Dante is offering, and what I’m turning down. Even if the rates for his sessions were adjusted to mine, it would still be a huge influx of funds for me.That’s not how it works. You’ll have to discuss scheduling with Rico.
There’s no response for a few minutes, and as I bundle up the trash from my dinner to throw it out, I think Dante might have actually taken no for an answer.
And then my phone rings.
I don’t even have to look at it to know it’s him. On the heels of those texts, who else would it be? It’s not as if I have that many people who even have reason to call me. I consider simply letting it go to voicemail for a moment, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t give up. If I’m not careful, he’s going to end up coming here in person to hash this out, and that’s thelastthing I want to deal with.
Is it really?Are yousureyou wouldn’t like an excuse to see him again?That traitorous little voice whispers at the back of my head as I snatch up my phone and stalk towards the back door of the shop, answering the call as I go.
“Hello?”
“Emma.” Dante’s smooth, rich, lightly-accented voice comes over the line, and I hate the instant jolt that I feel at the sound of it. It’s like being dipped in chocolate, surrounded by silk, and it’s all too easy to imagine him murmuring filthy things to me in that same voice he just used to say my name.
Or even—just continuing to say my name like that. Whispering it in my ear. Moaning it—
“Emma?”
Fuck!I jolt myself out of that particular train of thought, trying to focus on what he’s actually saying.What the hell is wrong with me?Men don’t affect me like this. They never have. But Dante seems to distract me more easily than my own thoughts.
“I’m just stepping outside so I can hear you. What is it, Dante?” I don’t bother trying to hide the irritation in my voice. If it puts him off from wanting to work with me or see me again, so much the better.
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Emma. I want you to finish the tattoo. It’s healing better than any of the others I’ve gotten already, and your work is perfect. I got Rico’s name from a friend who had work done by him—in my opinion, yours is better.”
