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My god. As Dante steps towards me with almost predatory intent, I can see his cock starting to thicken again. The man is insatiable. A part of me wants to give in, to find out just how many times he can fuck me before the morning, to indulge myself in ways that I never have before.
But instead, I force myself to put a hand against his chest, stopping him before he can close the last inches between us.
“We’re going to run out of time tonight if you really want to get some work in,” I tell him lightly. “You don’t want your artist half-asleep.”
Dante looks down at me with an expression that I can only describe ashungry. I’ve never seen a man look at me like that before. He looks as if he wants to push, but instead, he steps back, shrugging.
“You’re probably right.” His tone has that lightness now, too, as if he’s trying to hide what he’s really thinking. “Finish up in here, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
There’s a note of strain in his voice, as if he is struggling to keep his hands off of me. The idea would have seemed ludicrous if I weren’t looking at him, gloriously naked, his cock at half-mast even after coming twice in an hour.
It feels good to be this desired. But I can’t let it go to my head.
Dante steps out of the shower, and I duck under the water, quickly going about using it for itsactualintended purpose. I can see the hazy outline of his body on the other side of the shower door, and I can’t help but look at him as I rinse off. He’s so handsome that it should be illegal.
He’s no longer in the room when I finally step out of the shower. I dry off with a towel so soft and fluffy that I temporarily consider stealing it, and slip back into my jeans and tank top. True to his word, Dante is already downstairs when I walk out of the bathroom, but I’m not at all prepared to see him sitting at the bar in only a pair of soft-looking black sweatpants, bare-chested and waiting for me.
It feels more intimate than it should. It’s late—we’d probably be partway through the session by now, if we’d started when we were meant to. I’ll be here later than I normally would be, and there’s a quiet closeness to the house as I walk down and start to unpack my equipment that makes it feel different from an ordinary appointment. It even feels different than the first appointment here did, and it doesn’t take a great deal of rumination to figure out why.
Looking at the tattoo now, knowing I’m going to be the one to finish it, I feel a thrill of excitement. I’m unhappy with how Dante went about it, but I can’t change that now—and I can’t deny that I wanted this.
Just like I can’t pretend that I didn’t want what happened earlier—that a small part of me might even have hoped for it, when I knew I’d see him again. Even if I didn’t want to admit it.
Sleeping with a client is a terrible idea, but I tell myself that it can just be the one time. That now, as I pick up my machine and start to work on the next set of lines, we’ll go back to being professional—artist and client. We’ll put it behind us, the tension exorcised, and it won’t happen again.
But every time I touch him, even with gloved fingers, I can feel the way he tenses, just a little. I can feel the heightened awareness between us, a knowledge of each other, an intimacy that wasn’t there before. It’s not going to go away just because I want it to.
I’m also not going to lose out on this just because I let things go a little too far.
I wondered if he would be quieter this session, now that he’s gotten what he wanted from me—physically, at least. But Dante keeps up the same casual conversation that he did last time—asking me about art styles I like, what I prefer to tattoo, if I’ve done any of my own tattoos on myself. And I find myself opening up to him a little more, the conversation flowing so easily that I could be back in my own little booth at the Night Orchid, chatting with any client. I tell him that I love going to art museums, but that I don’t really like contemporary art. That I like fine-line tattoos over more traditional styles. That I love tattooing flowers. I show him the one tattoo I did on myself, a small ghost holding a flowerpot just above my ankle.
“It was for practice, early on in my apprenticeship,” I tell him with a laugh. “I know it’s not very good. But I like that I have it.”
“It’s better than some I’ve seen.” Dante chuckles, looking closer at the little ghost. “And it’s a good memory for you.”
Everything he says makes me think that there’s more to him than meets the eye—more than just the kind of man I would assume him to be.
But I know it could be dangerous to think of him that way.
It’s very late when I finish, past one in the morning. I start to pack up my things, hoping that he won’t suggest that I stay instead of driving home. I’m worried that I won’t be able to say no.
I hook my bag over my shoulder, turning back to see Dante holding out an envelope. “Your fee, and the tip,” he says, and then before I can take it out of his hand, he steps forward and unzips my bag just a little, slipping the envelope inside before rezipping it. It puts him very close to me, close enough that I can feel the heat wafting off of his skin and smell the scent of the juniper and pine soap he used in the shower.Thatsends a rush of heat through my body, remembering what we did in that shower. Remembering his hands on me, his cock—
Dante looks down at me, and I can see the flicker of desire on his face. I see the way his gaze drops to my mouth, and I know he’s thinking of kissing me goodbye.
I take a step back, before I let him.
“We can schedule another session next week,” I tell him. “Two more sessions, probably, to finish the outline. Then we can start on shading.”
I keep my voice as professional as I can, trying to not let him hear how much I want that kiss. How hard it is not to close the distance between us and taste his mouth on mine once more before I leave.
I can see him grappling with the same thing. But after a moment, he steps back, too.
“I’ll look at my schedule and text you. We can figure out a time that works for us both.”
I nod, turning to leave. All the way to my car, I can still smell the scent of his soap and skin on me. I slip into the driver’s seat, and it’s still there, making my heart race, making me want to go back up to his penthouse and wrap myself around him all over again.
Keeping my resolution to not let this happen again is going to be so much harder than I could have ever imagined.
