There's something about plain cotton panties. The innocence. The sweetness. The Chloe no one sees.
My cock stirs.
I can still taste her cunt on my lips.
Still hear her groaning my name.
Feel her painted black nails against my back.
Three years of teasing and flirting and they ended exactly how they needed to.
Shit.
I can't think about this or I am gonna fuck up.
This tiger is too perfect for that.
"Must be a good one." Randy laughs. "Do I need to give you a minute alone?"
If I keep thinking about Chloe, he will.
I push it aside. Find a… not fiction, but an exaggeration. Sometimes a tall tale is what gets the job done. "You ever have a guy beg you to fuck his girlfriend?"
"No way."
"Way." It was a while ago, yeah, but it was also unforgettable. "It was his thing. He liked to watch."
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell me you're uptight, Randy."
His laugh is hearty. "No."
"I get the objection. I wouldn't let some asshole touch my girl—"
"Certainly not someone like you."
"Randy, stop being brave. You're on your stomach. I've got the gun. I could write Dean Maddox owns my soul on your ass."
"You wouldn't."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah…" His voice trails off. "Pretty sure."
He's right. I wouldn't.
But I'm not gonna let him know that.
Focus returns as I bring the needle to his skin. This is where I belong. Don't get me wrong. I love a lot of things—weight lifting, surfing, TV, women—but nothing compares to doing ink.
Nothing.
I shift into the zone. "Last one. You ready?"
"And my details?"
"After." Everything fades away as the needle hits his skin. The breathy whine of a miserable lyricist—Leighton's pick—blurs into heavy guitar, conversation, the whir of the air-conditioning, the smell of rubbing alcohol and A&D ointment.