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Merc crosses his arms and flashes me a toothy grin. “Ahh. Mr. Roman Empire, amiright?”
“No. Florence.” Perturbed, I roll up my shirt sleeve to show them the ink on my right arm—busts of Roman gods intertwined with laurel through a realistic rending of the ancient structure St. Peter’s Basilica and the modern Maxxi museum building. “It’ll be the companion piece to this.”
“Impressive.” Merc examines my arm. “This looks like Ruben Riksfjord.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. It is. I got it in Copenhagen. I was there for work on a multiyear project. I'm very pleased.”
“So, you’re still good with my design? I’m not the type of artist who copies my colleagues’ art.” Jordan defiantly stares me dead in the eye.
I'm already irritated she's pretending not to know me, so the insinuation offends me, as does her bluntness. She’s not the flirty, submissive sex kitten I remember, apparently. “I wouldn’t be at The Salty Siren if I wanted a hack job and I certainly wouldn’t have waited over a year for an appointment with you for a replica.”
“Hold on.” Jordan peers at me and holds up a finger. “Shitty attitudes are not tolerated in my establishment. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Once.” She studies one of the stencils. “For the record, you’re about to spend about thirty hours getting permanent ink on a highly visible part of your body. I’m going to ask questions and you’re going to answer them because I’m a professional. If my approach doesn’t work for you, I have a lot of very nice, appreciative clients who’d be thrilled to move up the list.”
I nearly have to hold my jaw to keep it from dropping open. I reaffirm my previous assessment. Jordan’s not afraid to set boundaries. Few people are able to put me in my place anymore and frankly, it’s fucking sexy. “I apologize. In my defense, I’m an artist too and I wouldn't ask you to copy someone else’s style. I made the appointment with you because of your talent.”
“Good to know. Let’s get the party started. I’ll need about ten minutes to get my station set up. Afterward, we can work on placement.” Jordan disappears into a room behind the counter.
My eyes linger on her heart-shaped ass as she walks away. Holy fucking hell. I can still picture Jordan’s bare cheeks jiggling from the force of my thrusts when I fucked her upright against the hotel window. Unfortunately, my dick twitches at the memory and my jeans grow even tighter.
Merc snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. “Eyes off her caboose, Romeo. I need a credit card for the deposit.”
“Uh…sorry. I mean, uh…sure.” Flustered at being caught staring—and picturing her naked, no less—I fish out my card and tap it on the terminal.
“Don’t take it personally.” Merc hands me a receipt. “I look out for her. As you might imagine, Jordan gets hit on a lot. She’s a knockout so it’s understandable—but get yourself together before you go back there.” His eyes flick to the bulge in my jeans before meeting my shocked gaze. “It’s a lost cause anyway, she doesn’t fuck her clients.”
I nearly choke on my own spit.
There’s no chance to recover because Jordan beckons me from the doorway. Her smirk indicates she overheard Merc read me for filth. “Mr. Vander, please come in.”
“Peter.” I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath and stride toward her, trying to regain some semblance of equilibrium. When I peer inside the room, I’m stunned. It’s more high-end spa than tattoo parlor. “This isn’t what I was expecting.”
“At The Salty Siren, you get white-glove service and a five-star experience.” Jordan ties a pink bandana round her hair and rattles off her spiel. “I’m assuming you know about prep since you’re not a novice to a full sleeve, but as a reminder I’ll need to shave and clean your entire arm with antiseptic. Then we’ll focus on placement of the stencil. Once you’re satisfied, I’ll focus on the outline today and we’ll schedule additional sessions for the shading and final details every couple of weeks or as your schedule permits. I’ll step out so you can take your shirt off.”
“No need.” I pull off my sweater and T-shirt. “I’m ready.”
Jordan’s eyes widen as she takes me in. I work hard to keep a taut six-pack and cut arms. All the better to show off my body ink, which she hasn't seen yet. My torso—save my stomach and left arm—features artwork from three amazing tattoo artists.
“Incredible.” With her finger, she traces the intricate Japanese design on my back featuring dragons, koi fish, and lotus flowers interwoven with a mosaic pattern of glass, metal, and solar panels invoking the Besançon Art Center, designed by my most-cherished mentor, Kongo Kuma. “If I’m not mistaken, this looks like Haruto Ito’s work.”
I’m stunned. “You’re familiar?”
“Of course. I’ve not met him in person, but I’m a fan.” Jordan’s eyes scan the smattering of small but intricate designs on my right pec.
With her sparkling green eyes perusing my body, my cock remains painfully stiff. Discreetly, I hold my sweater in front of my erection. I don’t want her to feel threatened by me, but I have little control over my dick where she's concerned.
“Well, let’s get you shaved.” She snaps back into all-business mode. “Follow me.”
Fifteen minutes later, my arm is hairless and swabbed. Jordan holds up the stencil against my bicep, her eyes furrowed in concentration. “I like to take my time at this stage to make sure the design fits around the anatomy of your arm. It's important to position it correctly.”
“I like your style,” I hear myself blurt out as she peels off the stencil. “Not just your artistic talent. You have a certain…aura about you.”
Her expression remains passive, disinterested. “Thanks. Let’s look at the three-way mirror.”
She spins me around and holds my arm up at various angles. I can’t really make heads or tails of the design in its current state, but I trust her. I’ve followed her work for years. “It’s perfect.”
“Good. Let’s get you comfortable.” Jordan helps me recline on her special chair and positions my arm on a table she slides out. “It can get cold in here.” She drapes a light blanket over my chest and pants.
Shit. She noticed my boner.
