Tempting

Will power isn’t gonna cut it.

I need something a hell of a lot stronger.

My twelve o’clock is sitting in the teal chair, her face pressed against the wall, her tongue between her teeth.

She squints.

Bites her tongue.

Squeezes her thigh with her free hand.

Her gaze goes to the mirror. She watches me work.

At first, it bothered me. But I’m used to it now.

Clients love watching ink mark their skin.

I can’t blame them.

I love it too.

And this girl—she’s barely older than Kaylee—is a trooper. It’s nearly two now, and she hasn’t asked for a single break.

I check in. “You okay?”

She murmurs something. When I arch a brow, she nods.

“This is the last line.”

“Thank fuck,” she whispers.

My lips curl into a smile. This is her first piece of ink, and it’s a big fucking tattoo—a teddy bear with its arms hanging off, stuffing spilling from its guts, its eye missing, its nose askew.

I don’t ask what it means. I never do. Tattoos are personal. People talk when they want someone to listen.

Mostly.

Some people don’t say shit, even when they’re desperate for someone to listen.

Besides, there might not be a backstory. It might be as simple as a love of teddy bears.

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.”

Anna. She’s an assistant at some place with a corporate name.

She wants to fuck me. She’s nearly screaming it.

But I’m still tempted to toss her card.

She sways her hips as she walks out the door. It’s a showy gesture. A look at my ass.

Dean waits until the door swings shut to move into the lobby. He shoulder taps me. “You got her number. Nice.”

I shoot him an incredulous look.

“Did you not see those tits? She was fine.”

“And?”

His smile spreads over his cheeks. His blue eyes light up. “And she wants to tear off those black skinny jeans of yours. What the fuck are you trying to prove with that outfit anyway? You look like an emo musician.”

I struggle not to roll my eyes. This is a tattoo shop, not a runway. And he only pulls out that emo label to annoy me. Because he knows Emma’s room is decorated with posters of eyeliner wearing musicians. And that nothing annoys me more than her blasting that shit.