by C. Shell
The end opens to a large room, loud music floating up from a surround system built into the walls as a Metallica song rattles my insides. A man stands in the corner cleaning his instruments, his back to me. I assume he’s the one who’ll be doing the honors of giving me my first tattoo, but I can’t see much of him from my vantage point. I just hope he isn’t too weird or has bad breath. That would suck.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and do my best to prepare myself for what’s coming. I’m as nervous as I am excited.
“I can do this,” I silently tell myself.
The receptionist has to raise her voice to be heard over the music. “Ashton, your next appointment is here. Her name is Emma Jameson, and this will be her first tattoo.”
The moment she moves out of my way, I step fully into the room. The area is a lot larger than I expected. I was expecting a small cubical type space with ugly fluorescent lighting like what we have back at the dorm. Instead, I get a room larger than most living rooms. The walls are coated in a deep gold with black matte trim and bright track lighting. The black and gold checkered stone flooring can’t be anything but custom, and smack-dab in the center of the room is a large shiny black leather reclining chair that reminds me of a modern-day throne.
It’s over-the-top, hip, and yet, regal at the same time. I don’t know who their designer is, but I would bow down to them because this place looks fantastic.
The man turns the music down so I can hear him and says, “Why don’t you take a seat so we can go over a few things.”
My ears perk up and a tingling begins at the base of my spine and works its way up. It can’t be him. And yet, I know it is. I’m good at voice recognition, and I know that voice as if it was my own. It’s visited me a time or four in my dreams, whispering dirty things to me while I came harder than I ever have.
With my stomach in knots, I spin around to face the tattoo artist. The man in question sits on a small swivel stool in front of a drawing board, his head bent in concentration as he studies a sketch laid out in front of him. Dressed in dark cargo jeans and a gray wife-beater, he appears more casual and comfortable in this setting than he did slinging drinks. There’s got to be a story there.
I knew that night that he didn’t belong on campus. The guys at school don’t hold a candle to this man. He’s too confident in the way he holds himself, his body a strong, physical work of art. How he ended up playing bartender at a stupid frat party is a puzzle that’s been plaguing me since the night we met.
I never imagined him to be the owner of a tattoo parlor, a very prominent one at that. Our town might be small, but Ashton Gibson’s reputation reaches from one coast to the next. Celebrities boast his work and magazines sing his praises. I thought he was close to my age, but with how much he’s accomplished, maybe I was wrong. It seems as if fate keeps putting him in my path, but why?
Why him? And why now?
I take to memory every line and dip of his muscular back. Even facing away from me, he is a thing of beauty. With long fingers, he moves with meticulousness, and grace as he works on a drawing before him. Watching him work is strangely erotic. It reminds me of the dreams I’ve had of him, the way he would use those same talented fingers to give me pleasure. I purse my lips, not wanting to admit how slick my panties are or how the pulse in my clit throbs.
I don’t move a muscle.
I don’t think I could if I wanted to.
I inhale a deep breath, grounding myself. I’m still staring at him when he turns his head and catches me looking. Ashton’s chocolate eyes land on me and a look of bewilderment crosses over his face before a coy smile takes its place. Glad to know I’m not the only one taken by surprise.
I watch in fascination as his lip darts out and drags over his lower lip. “Well, well, well,” he breathes. Leaning forward, he places his hands on his legs and steeples his fingers. “If it isn’t, Cherry girl. And here I thought my day couldn’t get any better.”
My nose scrunches. “Not that again. That’s a horrible nickname.”
He laughs, his rough voice sending goosebumps over my skin. “We’ll work on finding you a new one.”
Is he flirting with me?
I’ve been out of the game for a while, but I could swear Ashton is flirting with me. The man is so out of my league. Ashton Gibson is too confident, successful, and good looking not to have pussy chasing him from every direction. Even I’m tempted to take him home just to see he’s as good as I’ve imagined him to be. He has playboy written all over him. He’s sexy as sin, but I need a man who will stick around.
Men like him don’t settle for women like me. He needs exotic, and that’s just not me.
Conner is proof of that. I thought I had hit the jackpot when asked me out. I didn’t care about his money or family ties. I fell in love with how sweet and funny he was. He treated me like a princess and not some garbage he found stuck to his shoe. And now I’m finding out that it was all a lie. To him, I’m just a game piece to be moved when it suites him.
My life is in total chaos.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” I force some pep into my voice, as I push all the negative shit from my mind. I came here for a reason and it wasn’t to molest the artist, no matter how much that thought makes me smile. I tilt my head as a blush warms my cheeks. “Should I call you Ashton or do you prefer Mr. Gibson?”
Chapter Eleven
He grins, amused with my question. “As much as I love hearing you call me Mr. Gibson, let’s just stick with Ashton for now.” He motions to the leather chair beside me. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
I swallow, wishing to rid my throat of its dryness. I’m having second thoughts. I don’t know if I can do this with him. Tattoos aren’t just art, they’re intimate. They are a window into someone’s soul. Ashton might be talented and professional enough to work with me, but I don’t think I can work with him.
My hormones are already on high alert and he hasn’t even touched me yet. Every look he gives me burns through my skin. He scrubs a hand across his stubbly jawline, holding my gaze, and I lick my lips in response. I want a little taste of what this man can give. Just enough to soothe my curiosity.
“Emma. Sit down.” The roughness in his tone is my undoing. Despite my head telling me to run, I sink down onto the soft padded chair. The coolness of the leather seeps into my skin, making me shiver.
His lips tip. “Are you nervous?”
I nod, my movements shaky. I hate showing weakness, but I can’t stop my worries from taking over. Ashton moves beside me, reaches out and pinches my chin between his fingers, making me face him fully. “You’re safe,” he tells me. “I’ll walk you through this every step of the way.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. My shoulders relax and I laugh softly, feeling silly for getting so worked up. I don’t act this bad at the dentist’s office, and that man enjoys giving me shots for the smallest thing. Surely if I can survive a needle going into the roof of my mouth, I can survive a few hours with Ashton’s hands on me.
Ashton gets a brownie point for putting me at ease. It’s mildly concerning how comfortable I feel around him.
“Thanks,” I mumble, slipping my hands into my lap. I can feel his eyes on me, but my attention stays on the wall in front of me, taking in the pictures and décor while I work to slow down my breathing.
“If at any point, you need to take a break, just let me know. There’s no need to rush this.”
Easy for him to say. I’m the type of girl who rips Band-Aids off as fast as possible. Slow and steady isn’t a route I normally take. The longer I’m in this chair, the longer I have to endure everything. Him. Pain. Lust, Desire. I don’t know what do to with these confusing feelings that are attacking me from all sides.
Maybe I’m alone in this. Ashton might not be feeling as hyper-aware of me as I am of him. I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but it does. To be honest, it pisses me off.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, a bite in my tone. �
��What do we do first?”
A ghost of a smile coaxes his lips upward. “I like a girl who gets right down to business.” With a push of his feet, his stool rolls to a stop right beside my head. With the way he is angled, I can smell his cologne. Basic instinct has me inhaling. Cloves and cinnamon combined to create an earthy combination that makes my toes curl.
“So what design are you interested in getting today and where would you like me to put it?” I catch the double meaning to his words just like I catch his gaze roaming over my body with an eagerness that makes my pulse thunder wildly.
Every inch of my body is aware of his gaze. My traitorous nipples have pebbled to hard peaks despite the comfortable temperature in the room.
This is not the time or place for me to be getting turned on. I once read in a magazine where women and men alike can get sexually aroused while getting a tattoo. It has something to do with endorphins and adrenalin coursing through the body. I would like to blame that for the moisture gathering between my legs, but Ashton hasn’t as much as touched me yet, so that can’t be right.
I shake my head, trying to clear the effect he has on me. “I was thinking about getting a butterfly. One emerging from a cocoon with outstretched, colorful wings. It doesn’t have to be large,” I say with emphasis. Leaning forward, I point to my back-right shoulder blade. “How painful would it be to get it placed right here?”
“That’s a good spot,” he answers. Reaching behind him, he grabs a drawing pad and pencil. I frown, realizing that he only agreed on the spot and not the level of pain it would bring. He’s already onto another subject before I can comment on it.
He raises an eyebrow. “All tattoos have meaning. Why a butterfly?”
“I want something that symbolizes a new beginning,” I answer with no hesitancy. I’ve thought long and hard over this, and I want something to symbolize my fresh start. I dodged a big bullet by not marrying Conner and that is something that should be celebrated.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I deadpan. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and glance up at him through my lashes. “You can make a mean drink and I get that many people think you’re God’s gift to the tattoo world, but that isn’t reason enough for me to blindly trust you. Until today I only thought of you as the hot bartender guy.”
Ashton has the nerve to look insulted. I swallow an enormous breath as he leans in; the movement bringing us much closer. His eyes zero in on me, and I notice that his chocolate eyes have swirling specks of gold in them. It’s just one more thing about him, that’s unique and bold.
“I don’t know about the whole God’s gift part, but everything you’ve heard about me is right. No one can create the art I do. I’ve held the Tattoo Artist’s cup for the last six years, and I don’t plan on giving it up anytime soon. My waiting list a year long. If it wasn’t for that damn poker game, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me with a finger to the lips. My stupid heart goes into overdrive. “Before you tell me to go fuck myself, I have an idea for a tattoo I think suits you better than a common butterfly. You need to trust me. Let me give you something special.”
My chest tightens with anxiety. “What is it?”
The emotions swarming in his eyes give me pause. This feels like an important moment, one that holds more significance than it should. “It’s a surprise,” he says. “You won’t get to see it until after I’m done.” His gaze holds a challenge. “Think you can do that?”
This is definitely a test. If only I knew what I was being tested on. I take a deep breath, letting his masculine scent invade my senses. His relentless gaze could make me agree to just about anything right now.
Luckily, my brain overrides my hormones and before I dig myself a hole I can’t climb out of, I add in a few conditions of my own. “Okay,” I concede. “But only if you promise to make it tasteful. No reptiles, skeletal bones, or cartoons,” I punch out. “And nothing too large either. It can be larger than a dot, but nothing that takes up more than my shoulder blade.”
His head bobs up and down as if absorbing everything I’ve said. “Sounds reasonable,” he states. “Anything else before we get started?”
I shift uncomfortably on the chair as I rack my brains for anything that I might have missed. I’ve covered most of the bases, except maybe one. “I’m not a ruffle and lace kind of girl. It doesn’t have to be girlie, but I have a vagina so keep that in mind when choosing a design. Nothing dark or disturbing. I want it to reflect who I am.”
Ashton’s lips twitch with amusement. “I promise to keep your vagina on my mind the entire time.” His milk-chocolate eyes meet mine and I watch as excitement turns them a dark rich hue. Him talking about my vagina is too much.
A wide range of emotions play out across his face and I watch, enamored, wishing to know what each one means. The pleased look he shoots me makes cheeks heat. “This will be an experience you’ll never forget.”
I suck in a breath and swallow it whole. I came here looking for something new, and it looks like I got more than I bargained for. Ashton’s gaze drifts down and settles on my lips, and I find it hard to take my next breath. I don’t know what is going on between Ashton and me, but I like it.
I like it a lot.
Despite my trepidation, I’m all in.
Chapter Twelve
The humming sound the tattoo gun makes is hypnotizing. Yes, there is a bit of pain, but it’s muted thanks to the man beside me. His overwhelming presence has captured my full attention. Because of the position and placement of the tattoo, Ashton had me remove my top and lay flat down on my stomach.
Luckily, I expected this might happen and wore a sports bra. The leather chair threw me for a loop. I couldn’t figure out how to lie down on it. With a laugh, Ashton pressed a button on the armrest and the whole thing transformed into a long bench that can move up and down. I tried playing it cool, but deep down I was impressed. Everything in his shop is top of the line. You don’t get that without putting in hard work and having major skills.
Next came the design. Ashton was super secretive as he drew it out. I tried looking over and under his shoulder to catch a peek, but those large muscles of his kept getting in the way.
I swallow thickly as the gun scrapes across a sensitive part of my skin. “How much longer?” I ask.
“The outline is done. I’m starting on the shading now.” He softly wipes a rag against my back before twisting in his seat. I tilt my head to the side and watch as he switches out needles. I’m proud of how well I’ve held it together. It isn’t until I’m searching that I realize there isn’t a clock in this room. That’s weird.
“That still doesn’t tell me how much longer,” I quip back. “You’re good at non-answers.”
Ashton laughs, and the deep timbre of his voice hits me right between the legs. Between the hum of the gun, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and Ashton’s fingertips tracing lightly over my skin, I am primed and ready for sex. It’s been too long since I had a man’s hands on me. I squirm on the bench, needing some relief, then abruptly stop when Ashton's eyes track my movements. My cheeks heat to an unbearable level.
“About another hour,” he answers, and I groan.
I’m eager to see what design is forever inked onto my skin. If he put a half-naked woman or a silly cartoon on me, I will kill him. Raking my fingers up the inseam of the chair, I let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ve never been good at sitting in one place for a long time,” I confide. “If you could rush this along that would be great.”
“This is the last part,” he assures me. “Some people find the shading to be more painful. If you need something to squeeze, let me know and I’ll give you a stress ball to squeeze.” He points a wicker basket filled with them by his feet. “I’ve got every color in the rainbow to choose from.”
I study the collection of balls, and laughter bubbles out of me. I have so many jokes I could make about those si
lly balls, but I keep them to myself. With a broad smile, I say, “I’m sure I can handle it.”
Blowing out a hard breath, I lay my head back on the bench, my dark hair draped around my face like a sheet. The humming starts again and the moment the needle roughly scrapes across my delicate skin, my back literally arches off the bench. “Hold on,” I call out.
In a moment of panic, my hand blindly darts out in search of one of those pesky stress balls. My fingers touch a bit of fabric and I clamp onto it like a snake snatching up a tasty meal. The humming comes to an abrupt stop and the only sound in the room is Ashton’s sharp intake of air.
I blink past the ache in my shoulder and look up, pushing strands of hair behind my ear so I can see what’s going on. “Why did you make that sound?” I snap. “Did you mess up? What did you do?”
His eyes bore into mine, and a look of pain sweeps across his face. My thoughts are an unorganized mess as I search to figure out what’s happening. When I try and sit up I notice where my hand is. In my moment of panic, I grabbed a hold of a ball all right. Unfortunately, I found the real deal my mistake.
“Mm, sorry,” I squeak, unfurling my fingers one by one. I slowly retract my hand and Ashton’s breath comes out in a low hiss. My gaze slips down to the floor, so I don’t have to watch his reaction. I’m mortified and instead of just shutting up and moving past this incident, my mouth starts word vomiting. “I thought it was a stress ball. I didn’t mean to grab your junk. It was an honest mistake. Seriously, all balls kind of feel the same if you think about it. Not that I’m saying yours is small or anything. Or that I was checking, because I wasn’t.” I shut up and take in a lungful of air. “Did I hurt you?”
Ashton chokes on a harsh laugh. “Not in the way you think,” he mumbles. He stands and I can’t help but notice the large bulge pressing against the zipper of his jeans. His clothes clad dick is right in front of my face. I watch with rapt attention as he reaches down and adjusts it.
