extraordinarily forgiving.
Though usually soothing, the small space of my tattooing room feels confining as I prepare for Justin’s appointment. I’m so nervous it’s hard to stay focused, but luckily I could fill ink caps in my sleep. I’ve done it for years. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since…well, Trevor. And in many ways, the insane attraction I have for Justin reminds me of how it was with Trevor in the beginning. I still find Trevor attractive, but it’s tainted now by all the heartbreak he put me through. Trevor has made me wary of all men. The pain he caused is enough to last a lifetime. I’d rather let my idle lady parts dry up to dust than deal with another rampage on my heart.
My apprehension about Justin might be for nothing. After meeting him three times, I’m quite sure that he’s a relentless flirt. His intense gaze, which always throws me off, is most likely part of his calculated bad boy act. But I’m very, very tempted to use his act to my advantage. He could be the perfect buffer to help me deal with Trevor’s return. Justin seems shallow enough to agree to play the part. When it comes to Trevor, my emotions are so warped I don’t trust myself.
Todd strolls into the room and lifts the thermal paper with Justin’s design on it from the tray stand. His lip curls. “More tribal shit?”
“Todd,” I say in a warning tone. He is forever complaining about people who come in and pick “cool” or “cute” ink. Tribal designs and fairies top his whine list. I don’t care what people pick. I’m always honored they let me permanently mark their skin. But Todd is the textbook image of a tattoo artist. Attitude. Shaved head. Two arm sleeves. Ear gauges. Pierced everything, which is why Todd
“Hey, I quit saying
“Quit saying sh—stuff, period.”
“Oh.” He leans back and points a finger at me. “I almost got you.”
I give him a low-lidded stare, then nod toward the stencil. “Take a better look, beep face. That one is custom. The guy is a singer.”
“Beep face?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I say, “Figure it out. Fill in the blank.” I point at the design. “Just take a look.”
He peers closely at the stencil. “This thing would rock without the lame tribal shit.”
Irritated, I point to the door. “Go find something to do. Clean the bathroom if you can’t figure out anything else.”
He wrinkles his nose until the end of the septum ring practically points at me. “I’ll find something.”
Once he’s gone, I set up the tattoo chair so Justin will face away from me, leaning over the arm chair, which makes it easy for me to pull up my stool and work on his lower back. I’m rechecking everything on my tray when Mandy brings him into the room. He’s dressed casually swanky again—dark jeans, a white button-up shirt with a gray tank underneath, and black boots. With the wave of blond hair tousled over his forehead and the slightest hint of a five-o’clock shadow, he is picture perfect just like last time. The small room, with its plain white walls and bright light—I like to work within a clear canvas—was finally feeling calm and, somehow, quiet even with the thrashing music blaring from the overhead speakers. But Justin’s entrance brings a crackling energy that ruins the tranquility.
Ugh. The sooner this is over the better.
“His paperwork and payment are finished,” Mandy says to me, then smiles at Justin. Her eyes travel the length of him. “See you in a couple of hours.”
He grins at her, reaffirming my sense that his flirting is habitual.
I hand him the final sketch I’d made two nights ago. “Make sure this is exactly what you want.”
He studies it for several seconds. He shakes his head slightly. “You are unbelievably talented. It’s perfect, Allie.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly shy as a blush warms my cheeks. What am I, twelve? I stuff down my embarrassment and put on a professional face. “Um, if you take off your shirt, we can make sure I’m putting it exactly where you want.”
“Trying to undress me?” he asks with a grin.
I shoot him a level, emotionless glare. I’m not Mandy. I’m not into playing flirtatious games. Not sure if I’d even remember how. If I ever knew how.
His response to my look is to slowly—it’s too slow to me—unbutton his shirt, then reach for the bottom of his tank and lift it off in a sensual motion. Shirt gone, his eyes connect with mine—and I’m once again telling myself his gaze is just part of his flirty nature. But it’s still very hot. And regrettably I’m not immune.
Ignoring the reawakening of my stupid hormones, I gesture to the long mirrors in the corner. “Show me again where you want the tattoo.”
He stalks over to the corner, glances over his shoulder, and runs a finger along his spine. The movement is as sexy as the last time he did it. “I’m thinking here. Or do you think lower would be better?”
His muscular chest is facing me. His defined back is in the mirrors. Um…Damn. Though a flush travels over my skin, I force myself to consider his question and not devour him with my eyes, but the picture he makes is stunning. Something I’d like to re-create with harsh brush strokes in black-and-white. I clear my throat. “I think a few inches lower would spatially work better.”
Still glancing over his shoulder, he cocks his head in thought, then runs a finger lower. Near the band of his boxers. “Here?”
“Ah-huh,” I say, getting more flushed, which is ridiculous. I never get like this anymore. He needs to get away from the mirrors. Now. I lift the thermal paper. “You can check the transfer once I apply it.”
He turns to me. “No need. I trust your judgment.”
Wanting to get this over as soon as possible, I motion to the chair. “All right, then let’s get started.”
Like a graceful panther, he folds himself onto the chair and leans over the armrest, pressing his flat stomach against it.
The stretched muscles and the skin of his back stare at me. Shoulders sleek with strength rest below the line of his dark blond hair. As I step closer, that same dark, sexy fragrance I remember from before makes me pause. Gah. This stuff is ridiculous. It has to be called something like Drive the Ladies Wild. The way it gets my hormones going, it should be illegal.
“Comfortable?” I ask, sinking on my stool and reaching for a pair of disposable gloves.
“As comfortable as I’m going to get.”
I can hear the smirk in his words. “Anytime you need a break to stretch tell me. The ink will take better if you’re relaxed.” I start prepping his skin to shave.
“This is always the weird part,” he says after the first swipe of the razor. “Never thought I had a hairy back.”
“You don’t,” I say, and unfortunately my tone is slightly wistful. Stupid hormones escaping again, but he has a gorgeous, ripped back that has me wishing like an idiot I weren’t wearing gloves. “Has to be done. Even the smallest hairs can cause problems.”
Finished shaving the area, I push my nervous fingers to his back and press on the transfer. Done, I ask him to check the placement in the mirror again. He doesn’t get up. “You’re the artist.”
At this point, I’m not going to argue. Reaching for the tattoo machine, I force myself to relax.
He laughs. “Well, let’s get the first part over so the endorphins can kick in.”
“No more laughing,” I warn, pressing a vinyl-clad hand on his back.
“Gotcha, Boss.”
With a slight shake of my head, I push the needle to his skin along the bottom of the outline. He doesn’t even flinch. The first half hour is quiet, and he’s still as I concentrate and enjoy filling in the outline until he says
