“What did you say?” I ask her, wanting her to repeat herself and hear it again that it’s me that she wants. I know this is a fantasy and it’s one I can’t get carried away with, but I can’t stop myself from wanting it to last a little longer.
She pulls her shoulders back and stands up straighter. Her large breasts are pressed tightly against her shirt, and the little bumps of her hard, pebbled nipples are almost begging to be claimed. I fist my hands at my sides, waiting to see what her next move is.
“You heard me.” She smiles. “I want you.”
I revel in it. Her husky voice sounding off the art-covered walls causes me to tremble in ways I haven’t in a long time. But instead of taking her word for it, I still have to point out the obvious. “You don’t even know me.”
As if realizing what she’s saying, she shakes her head. “You’re right. I don’t know you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” She holds her hand out to me. “My name is Ginger McGee. I own the Rosewood Produce Stand with my sister, Honey, who you know since you’re friends with David.” She trails off, still holding her hand out, and I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and wrap my hand around her smaller one. She smiles and continues. “I’m twenty-three years old, and my family and friends say I’m a flirt and that my mouth is going to get me into trouble one day.”
She finishes on a huff with a red face. I know I’ve held her hand too long, but I don’t want to let it go. I can chalk it up to the fact I haven’t been attracted to a woman in a long time, but I know that’s not it. There’s something about Ginger McGee. She’s fun and flirty, but even knowing that, I also know there’s an innocence about her. She makes me want to take her upstairs with me. But I can’t. She thinks she likes me, or wants me right now, but the truth is she doesn’t know anything about me, and the second she does, she’s going to probably go running out the front of my shop.
I drop her hand, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “So do you want the tattoo or not?” I ask her, a lot gruffer than I should.
My abruptness doesn’t faze her. The smile stays on her face, and if anything, it gets wider, and her eyes get even darker until they’re almost a midnight black. Finally, she nods, and I turn on my foot and go toward the back where my tattooing booth is. Everything is already set up, and I pat the chair. “Here you go. Sit here.”
She hangs her purse on the hook by the door and hops up in the chair. I act as if I’m busy, prepping my tools, but really I’m trying to take a breather from looking at her. I’ve never tattooed anyone that I’ve had an attraction to like this, and I don’t know how it’s going to work with the bulge in my pants that seems to be getting bigger by the minute. Just thinking of putting my hands on her is going to do me in.
When I finally look up, she’s staring straight into my eyes. I jerk to the side as if her gaze is scalding me and take a deep breath. I can do this, I tell myself over and over. I inhale deeply. “Okay, so did you decide what you want... for a tattoo?”
She nods with a smirk on her face and holds out her hand. “I want a Q with a red heart over it.” She’s pointing to the side of her finger.
I almost fall back in my seat. “That’s different. Why’d you choose that?” I ask her, stalling from putting my hands on her.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Because I want to be someone’s queen one day.”
My arms flex, thinking of her with another man, but before I can get too deep in thought, I shake my head as if pushing the thoughts away. She and I are not going to happen.
Without commenting on her choice of a tattoo, I instruct her to sit back. “There’s a table there. Put your hand on it.”
She scoots back, and as she does her shorts ride up her thighs, showing even more of her tanned legs.
“Perfect.” I roll my chair over and hold on to her hand. I look at the size of her fingers and work out the size in my mind. Already I can picture what it’s going to look like. “You want a crown too?” Because in my mind, I think she needs a crown.
“I trust you,” she answers, and I feel that all the way to my gut. I’m the last person she should put trust in, showing just how gullible and inexperienced she really is.
I prep her hand and make sure it’s thoroughly cleaned. I usually have my clients clean their own hands, but for her, I wanted to do it myself. She’ll never know.
I turn on the gun, and the vibrating starts. “Ready?”
She nods and bites onto her lower lip. In a daze, I
