I almost cursed myself for saying that out loud, wondering why the fuck I was engaging in this conversation for a moment before realising that she wasn’t being condescending or judgemental, just curious, like she really wanted to know what it felt like for me when I was creating something.
“Yeah,” I said in a low voice. “It does when I get it right, when it really feels like I’m breathing life into something. And once I feel that connection to it, I don’t need an outline to work from. I can feel the way the lines should curve, taste the way the shadows should fall…”
She reached out and pressed a finger to my chest, tracing the outline of the devil I’d inked there, sitting on his throne, lording it over the entire world with nothing but his dominating aura to confirm it.
“How does that work for tattoos that you can’t do for yourself?” she asked, obviously realising that I’d have had trouble inking that one to my skin while looking at it upside down.
“If the positioning I want means I can’t use the tattoo gun to ink my own flesh then I have a guy in the city who I trust. I create my final piece on paper and he can replicate it like a mirror image.”
Her fingertips continued to move across the lines of my tattoos like she was trying to feel that pulse in them for herself and I just watched her in silence for several long moments as my skin burned beneath her touch and I fought the desire to take more.
“What about when you’re creating a design for someone else?” she asked curiously. “Does that affect your process, or-”
“Yeah. The art feels different for different people. If something is destined to mark their flesh then it should be as personal to them as the colour of their eyes or the whorls on their fingerprints. I don’t do work on strangers, only people I know well enough to get it right.”
“What would you design for me then?” she asked, a challenge in her voice which said she didn’t believe I could create something that would suit her that way.
I tugged the sketchbook out of her hands, closing it and placing it on the nightstand before pulling the drawer open and taking a sharpie from inside it.
I turned back to her with a grin, clamping the sharpie between my teeth and reaching over to catch her waist between my hands as I dragged her into my lap. She gasped as I dropped her down, straddling me in that little black dress which rode up even more with her thighs parted over my legs. She never made much complaint about me manhandling her like that and I had to admit I was getting addicted to that look which flashed in her eyes whenever I did it. It was somewhere between murderous and exhilarated and I couldn’t help but enjoy watching the battle between those two emotions take place within her.
I reached for her left hand, turning her wrist skywards and slowly pushing the sleeve of her dress all the way up to the crook of her elbow, my rough fingers dragging across her soft skin and making goosebumps scatter over her flesh.
I tugged the lid off of the sharpie using my teeth and spat it onto the bed beside us as I assessed her skin, trying to feel the right design in the tension that coiled through the air between us.
“Hold still, baby,” I murmured as I supported her arm in my left hand and began to draw with my right.
The pen was thicker than I’d have liked for the delicate design I marked out, but I ignored that slight flaw as I concentrated on what I was doing, outlining a lotus flower coming into bloom at the centre of the piece before working out from there.
Tatum sat quietly, watching me work as I tried to create something that embodied the fierceness of her spirit with the beauty of her soul. I turned her arm slowly in my grip, painting out more and more fine lines, a web of intricate details that made it look like her skin was dressed in jewels. But the edges of them were sharp enough to cut. There was beauty and purity in the piece, but there was savagery in it too.
I lost myself in the creation of it as the minutes ticked by and Tatum just sat there, her hips pressed down over mine as her breathing grew shallow.
When I was finally done, I looked up at her and found her gaze on me instead of the design I’d drawn on her arm and the sight of her dilated pupils made my pulse quicken.
I tossed the sharpie down on my nightstand and tangled my fingers with hers as I raised her arm for her to inspect. I’d been so lost in my art that I hadn’t noticed the tension growing in the room between us, the heat of our breath kindling in the space that divided us, the way my body had responded to being so close to hers for so long.
My dick was hard and throbbing between her thighs and the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip said she was feeling the heat in the room just as keenly.
“It’s…fucking perfect, Kyan. I’ve never really considered getting a tattoo but this is coming close to convincing me. You’re really talented,” she murmured as her eyes fell on her arm and she turned it back and forth slowly, admiring her fake tattoo from every angle. “You could make a fortune doing this.”
“Naw,” I scoffed lightly and her brows pinched in a frown.
“Why not?” she asked, still keeping my fingers mixed up with hers and squeezing slightly.
“Let’s just
