Pretend You're Mine (Inked Hearts 3)

It's better to skip assumptions.

I place the needle over her skin, work the angle until it's just right. My eyes meet hers through the mirror. "You ready?"

She grits her teeth as she nods.

I turn the gun on and draw the last line down her shoulder, all the way to the middle of her upper arm.

She's done.

I pull the gun away, set it down. "That's it."

Her shoulders slip from her ears as she sighs. She shifts her torso so she can see the reflection.

Her eyes are saucers.

Her smile is spread over her cheeks.

"Oh my God! It's perfect." She jumps out of the chair and throws her arms around me.

I'm not used to this. I should be. Getting ink releases all sorts of endorphins. Adrenaline. Dopamine. I'm a badass, I can't believe I did that vibes. It's easy for people to mistake the rush of a tattoo for the rush of lust.

Or she thinks I'm hot.

I'm well aware of my effect on women.

It hasn't done me any good in a while. Not since I gave up on finding someone who would push Kaylee out of my head.

Shit. There goes my clear mind. When I'm in the chair, my hands on my tattoo gun, I slip into this trance. There's nothing in my head but the work. Not my doubts, not my desires, not my parents' voices. Hell, I'm not even thinking about the client. Or about our owner.

It's all about the ink itself.

It's nirvana.

I'm leaving a mark on someone's skin. Something that will last forever.

It's the best job in the world.

Worth almost any amount of bullshit.

"Sit back down. I need to clean you up." My voice drops to that demanding tone. The one I use when women are naked. Or about to get naked.

Not the kind of shit I do at work.

She doesn't mind the Dom voice. She plants in her seat, staring at the reflection of her tattoo with a goofy smile on her face.

Her enthusiasm is infectious.

And she's cute. Light hair. Bright eyes. Ample tits. The kind of girl I used to take home every other night.

I slip back into my trance as routine takes over. Wash. Pat dry. Photo. Plastic covering.

I go through my usual aftercare speech, take her to the counter to pay, grab some A+D ointment for her, accept another hug, take a few more pictures, listen to her gush to Leighton.

Fuck, it feels good, seeing someone that happy over their new ink.

Nothing else fills me with that kind of pride.

It doesn't even faze me when she slips me a business card and smiles. "I'd love to get a drink sometime. The bar down the street is great. Or we could go to my place. You haven't had a dirty martini until you've had one of mine."