“I’ve got no plans,” I say.
She’s quiet for a second, then Sasha adjusts her position on the table slightly. Raven looks briefly at her back, turns to me and says, “Sure. I’ll need to take a break and get something to eat first, so meet me back here at nine. Hopefully, I can finish it tonight.”
I nod. “See you then.”
As I start to walk away I hear Raven say, “You don’t talk much, do you, Lincoln?”
Without turning around, I reply, “Don’t need to. And it’s Link.”
10
Raven
I finish my last customer just a few minutes before eight. I’m sweaty and smell like Hollywood Boulevard and want to take a quick shower before this Ramirez guy comes back at nine o’clock. I don’t tell Theo about this after-hours tattoo appointment, because I don’t want him thinking there’s more to it than just ink. I tell him to lock up when he’s done, then get in the Bug and whip through traffic back to my Hollywood Dell neighborhood. My house is a craftsman, built in 1924, but still holding up like a champ. It’s old and small, but it was cheap enough so that I could afford it, and the neighborhood is perfect. Quiet and peaceful, to balance out the other half of my life.
I check the time as I pull into the drive, then scream, “Shit!” as I pound the dashboard. I’ll only have ten or fifteen minutes to shower and change clothes, then get back in the Bug again so I can be at the shop at nine. Phanes and Nyx duck under the couch when I come through the front door already pulling off my T-shirt. It lands on the hardwood floor of the living room, as does my bra. I stop halfway to the bedroom and peel off my shoes and socks, then get another ten feet before I jettison my jeans and panties. By the time I reach the door of my bedroom I’m naked. I grab a fresh towel out of the basket of clean clothes I’ve yet to put away, then head to the bathroom and turn on the hot water in the shower.
As I’m hurriedly soaping myself, I initially panic when I see the light dusting of short dark hair covering my pussy. I think, “Dammit, I won’t have time to shave.” Then it occurs to me that Lincoln Ramirez—or Link, or whatever he wants to be called—won’t be seeing my pussy tonight or any other night. I have nothing to worry about and laugh out loud as I wonder what remote, twisted part of my brain thought a simple tattoo session might end up in sex.
I make sure not to get my hair too wet or fuck up my makeup, then quickly towel off and brush my teeth. I’m down to my last clean pair of panties, the Hello Kitty ones I got as a joke but that I think are cute. Aware that this man has seen me twice and that I was wearing nothing but black both times, I slip into some gray jeans. I decide to go with red Converse sneakers instead of my Docs. The look is a little too cutesy for my taste, but it’s something different. A black “Anarchy now!” T-shirt steers me back toward my comfort zone. The sleeves are torn off and the neck cut out to make a low scoop, and I don’t bother with a bra. I throw on my beat-up black leather jacket, brush out my hair and my look is complete. Brushing my teeth quickly, I check my phone and see it’s time to go.
Every light turns red for me on the way back to the shop, and I’m five minutes late as I pull into my parking spot behind the building. I unlock the door and step inside, and immediately see Ramirez’s massive frame through the glass front door. As I flip the light switches and rush to meet him, I realize I’m perspiring from all the running around.
Great. Why did I bother showering in the first place?
“Sorry I’m late, Link, I got held up in traffic.”
No smile or any other indication that he’s happy to see me. Obviously, the guy is here for his free tattoo.
“No problem.”
There’s that deep voice again. Behind him I see his Harley. That thing is a work of minimalist art, with every square inch of its immense surface black.
“Nice bike,” I say.
“Yeah.”
Oh boy, this is going to be a long couple of hours.
He puts his helmet on the coat rack near the door. I lead him back to my station and begin to prepare, getting the tools and ink I’ll need. I’d used a break earlier to get the design stencil ready, to lay down a basic outline of the piece on his thigh so I’m not going totally freehand. When I see the stencil now, it dawns on me for the first time that this guy is going to have his pants off while I’m working right there, mere inches from his junk. Still, I’m a professional and won’t have a problem concentrating, and the pain should be distracting him so he won’t think about it, either.
“Ready to get started?” I ask, suddenly feeling a knot in the pit of my stomach at the idea of him removing his pants. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Sure.”
I pull the privacy curtain halfway around my station. It’s just a thin black cloth, but it will prevent anyone on the sidewalk from seeing what’s going on. I wouldn’t bother, except for that lack of pants, though something tells me this guy wouldn’t give a shit. For now, though, he’s only removed his leather jacket, boots and socks. He’s wearing black Levi’s and a tight white tee that looks like it might rupture at any moment from the pressure his muscles are putting on it.
“This is kind of obvious, but you’re gonna need to take off your pants,” I say. I’m trying to be lighthearted and casual, though for some reason I feel anything but.
“You first.”
I laugh at his joke. “Tattoo artists stay fully dressed,” I say with a smirk. “Store policy.”
I tilt the back of my tattoo chair until it’s horizontal, then bring up the legs as well. When I finish and it’s locked into table mode, I’m surprised to see Ramirez is still standing there with his pants on.
“The pants,” I remind him. Weird, last time he was so eager to drop his pants. Now he’s suddenly shy?
“Raven, I need to make a confession.”
Holy shit. He speaks! That was a complete sentence.
He unsnaps his jeans.
“Okay,” I say, wondering what the hell this is about as I try not to watch him unzip.
“I have a very high tolerance for pain.” He takes a breath, then adds, “but not tattoo pain.”
“I promise I’ll b-be—” Fuck, his lowering his pants is making me stutter. “I’ll be careful. I’m good at this.”
“I trust you.” He steps out of his jeans and tosses them on a chair.
Don’t look, Raven. Be professional. Do. Not. Look.
“I promise, this isn’t anything sexual. If you take off your pants, too, it’ll help distract me from the pain.”
I look into his intense green eyes. I know right away that he’s absolutely serious.
“It would be impossible for me to feel pain if you’re standing next to me in your panties. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Link, don’t be silly. This is my place of business.”
“There’s nobody here. And no one can see through the curtain.”
I stare at him, then am alarmed to realize I’m actually considering this absurd idea. And he’s also aware that I’m considering it.
“You are wearing panties, aren’t you?” he asks.
For some reason I can’t comprehend, I answer his question. “Yes, of course, but I’m—”
“Then you’re not really showing anything. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Damn, that deep, gruff voice. It’s so insanely fucking sexy.
“No, Link. No. Absolutely not. You’re being crazy. Now let’s get to work.”
Now he smiles. What’s behind those eyes is a mystery, but it’s one I find myself wanting to explore more with each passing minute I’m around this man.
“You know you want to.”
Well, fuck. He’s got me there. That dirty, slutty part of my brain is now clamoring to be heard, telling me it would indeed be fun. This is so damn tempting, but I can’t.
“I don’t even know you.”
“But you know you can trust me not to take advantage of you.”
Now he’s staring into my eyes. And he’s right, I do trust
him. I’m not sure why, but I do.
“Take them off.”
He’s not asking this time.
That does the trick. I unsnap my jeans and tug on the zipper.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I half-heartedly protest. “This is insane.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I lower my pants past my thighs. That’s when I remember I’m wearing my Hello Kitty panties, but he sees them at the same time I do.
I sit to pull my jeans over my shoes, because I’m not about to tattoo someone while I’m barefoot. Not wearing pants is bad enough. As I tug the pant leg over my sneaker, I look straight ahead and realize Ramirez is facing me, standing just a few feet away, his gray boxer briefs right at eye level, as is the bulge caused by whatever they’re hiding underneath. I quickly look away and try not to blush.
Done, I stand and set my pants aside, then turn to Ramirez.
“Ta-da!” I say with a laugh, my stomach all knotted up and my brain attempting to make any kind of sense out of what I’ve just done. How could I have allowed this guy to talk me into this at all, much less so quickly?
“Well hello, kitty,” he says.
I sure hope that’s not some lame joke about my pussy.
“Aren’t you the funny one?” I can feel the gooseflesh as the cool air caresses my thighs.
“Now the shirt,” he says. “Off.”
It’s another order, like the previous one. But I have to draw the line somewhere or he’ll soon have me completely naked.
“No. I can’t believe I took off my pants. The shirt is staying on.”
“I need the distraction. Take it off.”
I’m beginning to think this wasn’t about needing a distraction at all, and that he instead just wants to have a nude woman tattooing him for his own alpha-male pleasure. Well, that’s not going to happen. Not this woman, at least.
“No, Link. I’m not wearing a bra.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do. Keep pushing and I’ll put my pants back on.”
I try to look like I really mean it. The truth is I like the way this feels, me standing here in my underwear in front of this giant of a man. It’s scary and thrilling at the same time. Letting him see me topless would multiply that feeling.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
I can’t tell whether I’m relieved or disappointed. I try to gather my wits and focus so I can nail this tattoo.
Then my brain says, “Raven, you’re not wearing pants!”
I push the thought out of my mind as I pat the table and say, “Hop on up.”
Ramirez does, lying on his back. As I approach his thigh, I realize how close I’m going to be to his junk and it freaks me out a little. I’m not sure why, because I’ve tattooed men on their upper thighs before, and their butts, and the very bottom of their abdomens, just above their junk. Hell, I’ve even tattooed a few brave and stupid guys on their junk. I held their cock in one hand while injecting ink with the other. I never once felt anxious about doing it, other than wondering whether they could stand the pain.
I tell myself that it’s probably because I let this one talk me into tattooing him while I’m in panties, then lean in slightly to look at this thigh. The leg of his boxer briefs extends almost midway down and I can only see the bottom sliver of the blank space I’ll be working with. The rest of his thigh is already spoken for by several previous pieces, including a really cool hawk.
“I need your underwear moved up as high as possible so I’ll have room to work.”
I try to say it matter-of-factly, but I feel like it’s dripping with nervous energy.
“Do what you gotta do,” he says.
Fuck. I meant I wanted him to do it. I gingerly take the bottom and push it up his thigh as far as I can. That should be enough. His legs aren’t very hairy, but I’m still going to have to prep him.
“You know I’m going to have to shave that area, right?
“Do what you gotta do,” he repeats, adding, “I’ll just lie here and watch.”
I glance up to see Ramirez propped up on his elbows, looking at me as I inspect him.
Great. I’d prefer he lie back and close his eyes. Having him watch just makes me more anxious, especially when I already have other things to ignore as I work.
Grabbing a couple of disposable latex gloves, I slip them over the fingers on both hands. I take my oil bottle and squirt a little on his upper thigh, then work it into the skin. Using a new disposable razor, I slowly, carefully shave the area. The last thing I want to do is nick him. When I’m done, I wipe the area dry. I’m unable to resist a rapid glance a few inches upward to see if anything I’ve just done has had an effect on him, and I’m relieved to see that the bulge seems unchanged. At least he was respectful enough not to allow himself to get excited during the prep work, the only part of the entire process that could be considered remotely sensual.
Retrieving the design stencil, I press it to his thigh and transfer the outline to his skin. When I remove it, it’s perfectly marked him for the ink. I’m stoked about this design and know how amazing it’ll look when I’m done.
Taking my liner in hand, I turn on the power and feel the hum throughout my right arm, a sensation that’s almost heaven to me. As I scoot my stool an inch or two closer to the table, I see my bare thighs and the Hello Kitty panties. I must be fucking crazy.
I dip the needle in my little container of black ink, then put my left hand on his thigh and look up at him, doing my best to ignore that bump lying between us.
“Ready to rock and roll?” I ask with a smile.
Ramirez just nods, so I press the needle to his thigh and begin to follow the lines I’ve just marked.
I can always tell someone who’s had a lot of work done because they’re not surprised by the pain. As expected, he doesn’t flinch while I’m working, which lends credence to my thought that he didn’t really need anything to distract him. Instead, I’m the one who’s thrown off a little. I remind myself to focus on my work. It doesn’t help that I can feel Ramirez’s eyes on me as I work. He can’t see my panties or my legs from his point of view, but he’s probably getting an occasional glimpse down the widened collar of my shirt as I work.
Things move along quickly. I’m great at outlining and have that part finished in half an hour. The shading is the key, though, and will require more time. Luckily, he’s not much of a bleeder, and he does seem oblivious to the pain—both of which make my job easier. I’m thinking I can do the entire piece in about two hours. The only problem I’ve encountered so far is that the very top of the outline required me to push his boxer briefs back with my left hand to keep them out of the way. I hope that won’t be an issue once I start shading.
At first I try to keep Ramirez engaged in conversation, but it’s so damn difficult to converse with him. They call guys like him “the strong, silent type” for a reason. I soon give up and just focus on the inking. After an hour, I set down my machine.
“If you have to pee, now’s the time,” I tell him, flexing my right hand to stretch out the muscles.
“I’m good,” he says. Looking down his body at me, he asks, “How does everything look down there?”
I try to be funny. “I don’t know about everything, but the tattoo looks amazing. Wanna see?”
“Sure.”
I grab a hand mirror and try to angle it just right.
“Nice work. You’re impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say. I keep thinking I’ll get used to that deep voice, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Short break over, we soldier on.
Sure enough, those boxer briefs eventually become a hassle and I grow frustrated. We’re at the ninety-minute mark and I’ve finished most of the other areas when I decide I have to solve this problem. I look up at Ramirez.
“Link, could I get you to reach down here and pull your underwear up just an inch or so? It’s in the way.”
He props himself up
on his elbows again.
“I could take them off,” he says.
Whoa. I don’t need that.
“There’s really no need, if you could ju—”
He sits up and swings his legs around to the side of the table, then steps down. Before I can stop him, he’s naked from the waist down and I’m looking right at his big, muscular ass.
“Um, you didn’t hav—”
He presses his palms on the edge of the table and lifts himself back up, then brings his legs around again.
This man is lying in front of me with his cock out. His balls, too, for that matter. They’re shaved, or maybe waxed, and the rest of his hair is cropped short. Nothing whatsoever left to the imagination.
I quickly look away.
“Better?” he asks. Though his voice doesn’t show it, I can sense his amusement at my predicament.
I drop my hands to my lap and push my stool away from the table, creating some space between me and the dick I’m determined not to look at again.
“Seriously? No, it’s not better. I can’t work like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” I say, gesturing at his junk. When I do, I can’t help but look for a second. Damn, that is one thick cock. It’s hanging to his right, away from the tattoo, but still. I quickly look up to his eyes.
“Surely you’ve tattooed a cock before,” he says.
“I’ve tattooed several, but that’s not what we’re doing today.” That thing is still there, looming in my peripheral vision.
Ramirez says nothing.
I sigh again. “Okay, fuck it,” I say, then scoot closer and get back to work, ignoring his fat penis like the professional I am.
Five tense minutes later, I set my machine down and stand up.
“I can’t do this,” I say. “Take off your shirt.”
Ramirez looks at me, then sits up and removes his T-shirt, hands it to me, then lies back on the table.
Acutely aware that he’s now totally naked, I hurry to drape the shirt over his cock, carefully moving aside the white cotton just enough to give me access to his entire upper thigh.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club, Book 4: Link Page 6
