Hating You, Loving You (Inked Hearts 4)

Dean mimes being stabbed in the gut. He jumps over the counter—actually jumps—then stumbles forward. He lurches over. Grabs his chest. Stares at the imaginary blood on his hands.

"It's so… cold." He stumbles forward. Collapses on the ground.

He commits to his persona.

Even when it's stupid and annoying and rude.

And kind of funny.

Okay. Kind of really funny.

Our third tattoo is easier. The client is a woman. A tall, curvy, gorgeous woman.

Getting a tattoo just above her ass.

Dean charms her. Teases her. Makes her feel special.

I try to focus on the ink—a blossoming lotus, adorned with spirals and swirls.

It's great work—rich colors, sharp lines, soft shading—but my thoughts refuse to settle.

Jealousy builds in my gut.

My stomach twists. My heart sinks. My shoulders tense.

Finally, we finish. She giggles as he cleans her up. Hugs both of us. Gushes thank yous.

She's so nice and sweet and genuine.

And I want to punch her in the face because his hands are on her body.

They should be on mine.

They should be under my clothes. Between my legs. Inside me.

Fuck.

It's like high school. Dean owns my thoughts.

When I spend my late lunch break on a picnic bench by the beach, eating my homemade almond butter and jelly sandwich, he owns my thoughts.

When I grab a cup of Earl Grey at the nearest cafe, he owns my thoughts.

When I return to Inked Hearts and finish up administrative work, he owns my thoughts.

The day crawls on forever.

Until he finally releases me. And I leave. And he stays in the forefront of my brain.

I drive to the dojo. Change in the car. Step into the gym with every intention of clearing my head.

No Dean.

No Inked Hearts.

No men staring at my chest.

Teasing me about my panties.