by M. A. Ellis
Deeper Than Ink
M.A. Ellis
Everyone’s heard of Becca Wiley’s kickass inking skills, including the Master at a local BDSM club. He wants her to ink his subs with ultraviolet possession tattoos in exchange for enough money to pay her mortgage for six months—if she can pass an audition. All she needs is a human canvas.
For Chad Harrington, the last few weeks haven’t been a barrel of fun where his friends-only relationship with Becca is concerned. He’s ready for more, and what better way to say “I’m your man” than by offering a fresh patch of flesh for her audition, while safeguarding her from any other plans the Master may have in store?
Becca is shocked by her response to the eroticism at the club, but not as much as her reaction to Chad’s unexpected kiss and bold, scorching caresses. In less time than he can say “on your knees”, she learns what she’s been missing. And knows she wants more.
Deeper Than Ink
M.A. Ellis
Dedication
For M.L. Joy—Because there really is no one better than you.
Chapter One
“Four UVs. Without accent color. On the back of the neck or between the shoulder blades. As close to identical as you can make them. The fifth one, all the way around.”
Becca Wiley stared at the drawings she’d been handed and weighed her options, trying to ignore the imposing man on the other side of the counter. His wide shoulders and thin waist were highlighted to their fullest in a fitted charcoal-gray T-shirt that refreshingly did not sport a graphic design. His physique reminded her of the plastic gladiator breastplates her nephews were forever bringing to her condo to slay imaginary beasts or the invading masses.
And while the delivery method of the proposition was a little too cloak-and-dagger for her liking, Becca sure as hell wasn’t about to shoot the messenger himself. He was a good-looking man. And lately, she’d been dreaming about handsome men. Or rather, one good-looking man in particular. One who was decidedly off-limits. One with dark-brown hair that barely brushed his collar and haunting light-blue eyes.
Becca glanced from the drawings to the man’s round face. A corner of his mouth curved upward, his expression turning smug. It made it easy for her to admit Spartacus Junior wasn’t for her. That he wasn’t that hot.
She saw attractive men each and every day. Some flocked to the Galleria to gamble, some accompanied their wives or significant others on shopping expeditions of Kardashian proportions. A good number strolled through the door of More Ink to partake of the services she or one of the other seven artists provided. Being talented enough to work in one of the city’s premier parlors, Becca had seen a lot of guys over the past two years. She brushed off their attention as easily as she wiped away the overflow of ink from their skin.
There had been times where she had to look some dude square in the eye and remind them she had a sharp, pointy object in her hand and it could penetrate their skin at a hundred-ninety drops per second, if she chose. But the true assholes were generally few and far between.
Becca had rules, the most paramount being no fraternizing with customers once they got up from her table and strode away. It was a good decree, but there had been a few temptations. Leroy Verral, the bass player from Tormented Angels. Jonathan Hendricks, her ex’s former boss and vice president of accounting for one of the country’s largest investment firms. And Chad Harrington sommelier from the Michelin Guide-praised eatery nestled on prime, corner real estate five units down.
The musician had her taking notice because Becca was a huge fan. His previous tats were sick and she felt honored that he’d done his research and sought her out. He’d told Becca’s boss he wanted her or else the patch of skin on his right inside forearm would remain un-inked forever. He had flirted with her mercilessly but she had stayed strong. Little did anyone know, if he had swaggered in a few months earlier she’d have tossed her tattoo gun aside and hauled herself up the three steps it took to get onto his tour bus and rocked his thrash-metal ass. Until he dumped her in the next town.
The VP had ferreted her out as well. He’d been looking to get an old-school pinup, but Becca believed he was there to tell her in person that Vinnie had just been fired for embezzlement…and asked if she was available for dinner the following weekend. In Brussels. He had known the sordidness that accompanied her divorce, had seen the women who had come out of the woodwork one by one. She deserved better, Jonathan had said, and he was right. But at the end of the day, she knew he’d want her to be a showpiece. Just like Vinnie had.
Then there was Chad. Not a rock star. Not a corporate darling. Just an “average guy who knows his wine” as he liked to say. He offered Becca a daily dose of enticement on more than a few levels. Unlike the others, he was alluring and attainable. In the past eight months he hadn’t done one thing to land him on Becca’s personal Prick List. He wasn’t going to ride away to the next venue or jet off into the sunset. He was a man focused on stability. Their afternoon chats over café Americano and white-chocolate apricot biscotti had revealed that and a whole lot more. Like the fact that no matter what he proclaimed, he was far from average.
“You interested or not?” The man interrupted her daydreaming in a commanding voice. That pissed her off. Becca had been enjoying her little reverie. Hadn’t even gotten to the life-changing part where Chad had held a prominent position in his family’s engineering firm until his father had collapsed in the middle of a shareholder’s meeting. Massive coronary at fifty-one. Within a month Chad had chosen a new career path, one he could enjoy without the fear of leaving his own family, when he had one, alone and morose.
Becca was a fan of life changes, most of her customers got tattoos because of them. Even though there were times when her personal defeats still tried to rear their ugly head she knew the importance of keeping a positive attitude. Better than most. And there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with dreaming big.
But fantasies about friends who may or may not be fuckable weren’t going to pay the mortgage. But the exorbitant sum the man’s boss was offering would do just that. For the next six months. With enough left over to help with the ongoing shoe addiction Becca was slowly trying to kick.
She took one last look at the drawings. They weren’t half bad but she doubted the man standing before her had worked on them. Four of the sketches showcased a delicate chain coming from each shoulder before dipping downward and being joined with a Tiffany-style heart in the middle. The links were tight. Fine lines that a rookie would find difficult, if not impossible. But Becca had mastered that technique early on. She knew for a fact she could hit all the criteria his boss desired, even with the fifth drawing.
She checked out that design once more. A thick studded collar with the same distinct heart attached. Juxtaposition of punk meets Park Avenue if ever there was. But a part of her knew they probably weren’t intended as homage to Sid, Nancy or the Ramones.
Becca glanced at the pristine white business card she still held between her fingers. The neat, handwritten number was an insane amount of money for five ultraviolet tattoos, even from someone with her skill. She rotated her wrist, the crimson text jumping out at her as she read the club name again. She didn’t recognize it but she knew exactly what type of businesses the four hundred block of Coronado Street held.
“Exotic dancers or a band of bathhouse regulars?” she asked in a savvy tone.
He leaned over the counter, invading her personal space before he rested his elbows on the counter and laughed. The sound echoed through the reception area, the scent of sandalwood, thick and cloying, accompanied his closeness. She hated sandalwood and took a step backward.
He offered her a seductive grin. “I’d love to play twenty questions with you, just to see the look in your crazy-colored e
yes when we get to the end. But I don’t have time.”
With lightning speed he reached forward, grabbed her wrists and trapped her hands against the countertop. The sides of her hands hit the top so hard she thought the glass would shattered down on her boss’s collection of vintage tattooing needles and old-school Rose of Jericho flashes. Becca flexed her fingers and the card fluttered downward, falling on top of the designs. Her heart thudded in her chest but it wasn’t from fear. One good head butt and he’d let her go. It was the warmth emanating from his fingers as he trapped her wrists, the power beneath his minimal exertion, which sent a flutter through her abdomen.
“Doms and submissives, sweetheart. Most exclusive club in the tri-state. Is it too much to hope that you’re into the scene? Or maybe you’d just like to play? I’m trying to figure if you’d be a top or bottom. You send mixed signals, you know?”
Becca tugged against his grip but he didn’t let go. She was thinking an actual forehead-to-forehead encounter might be the only way to break free when the door to the shop opened and the chime under the thick rubber mat sounded. She looked up quickly. In four long strides Chad Harrington was standing in front of her, his dark brows furrowed with concerned, his hands fisted at his sides.
“Everything okay, Bec?” he asked, searching her face. She pulled her arms back over the counter and stacked her hands on her hips. It was her go-to position. The one that always made her feel relaxed. More in control. Now, if the trembling inside her body would just stop, she could convince both men she was totally unaffected.
“You’ll need a live canvas with the initial meeting,” the man said before she could reply to Chad’s question. He shifted his feet, putting a little more space between him and Chad before he continued. “If the boss likes the results, you get half in advance. You ink them where you want, but final approval has to be at the club, under our lights.”
The man eased upward off the counter and Chad moved closer. Becca knew Chad’s GQ image was deceiving. Beneath the blue-and-white-striped dress shirt and neatly pressed trousers there was a man who was currently giving off a time-to-kick-ass vibe. The guy who just wouldn’t quit talking was apparently too stupid to notice it. Or he was purposely ignoring it.
Becca had witnessed Chad’s understated authority more than once. It was a hell of a lot more attractive than the alpha pissing matches she usually encountered but now probably wasn’t the best time to evaluate why she found Chad’s laid-back control so undeniably sexy.
“The boss expects perfection for that payday and when he gets that, you get the rest.”
Chad’s low voice interrupted him. “Becca. I asked if you were okay.”
“Hey, man. I’m not done here.” He spun, finally giving Chad his full attention.
Becca could have sworn the man had actually puffed out his chest. Jesus, she hoped she wasn’t going to have to call one of the guys up from the back. She really didn’t want to have to explain any random blood splatter Chad might cause to her boss.
Lean, built like a swimmer, Chad had one of the most toned bodies this side of a beefcake calendar or the unending line of firemen who waited their turn for her to ink them. It took months of deflecting invites to hang at his pool before Becca had sucked up her insecurities and saw those rock-hard abs and well-defined arms up close and personal.
Chad slowly crossed his arms, his blue eyes flashing a warning as he widened his stance and eased one foot backward. The ripple of tension that bounced between them was palpable and she tried to think of something to say, something that would defuse whatever was about to happen. If her visitor thought all it was going to take was an icy stare and a few strategically timed pec bounces to make Chad back down, Becca knew he was sorely mistaken.
“You’re done,” Chad said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Becca couldn’t control the shiver that went through her. The man quickly glanced her way, checked out her goose bumps then looked back at Chad’s hardened expression.
“Shit. Now this makes more sense,” the man said.
Becca had no idea what he was talking about but if his previous need to hear himself speak was any indication, he’d expound in a second or two.
“I didn’t—”
Chad cut him off. “Leave.” The command was deep and rang with a finality that didn’t allow further argument.
He turned from Chad to stare at her for a moment longer and then looked back to Chad.
“Got it,” he said, tapping his index finger against the tip of his nose. He glanced down at Becca’s wrists once more. “You’re stronger than you look. Bet that makes things interesting, to say the least.” He began carefully stepping backward toward the door.
“We carry equipment too. Highest quality you can find. Custom like you’ve never seen. They make any sub thankful and every Master proud.”
From a safe distance he offered Becca a wink and a grin. The unwarranted, conspiratorial kind that made her skin crawl. Then he walked out the door.
Chad Harrington had been perfectly fine standing outside the window. It hadn’t been the first time he’d participated in a voyeuristic round of the Rebecca Wiley edition of “I spy with my little eye”. He always liked the part where it was time to spy a nice ass in vintage Red Tab Levi’s. They were his favorite. He hated when she wore any of the other ones. The ones with pocket flaps. Or even worse, the really dark pair with flaps and buttons. They made her perfectly formed booty look distorted and misshapen. Which was criminal.
Her talking to some dude at the counter had never bothered him before. She was a sought-after artist and her client base was predominately male. Professionally, she was worlds beyond most of her peers, not in experience, but definitely in expertise. She hadn’t bragged about that during the hours they’d logged in meaningful conversation. But her boss promptly displayed all his artists’ awards and recognitions on a rotating basis. Becca’s spread in Inked had held the place of honor this past June.
Chad looked at her wrists then up her arms, checking to see if the guy had grabbed her anywhere else. Her pale skin was unmarred and it reminded him again how savvy she was. She knew she needed to stand out. And she did, not by any full sleeves or wild designs, but by the fact she was virtually tattoo-free from an exposed standpoint. The upper edge of one of the tattoos on her chest was barely visible when she wore her uniform tank tops.
He, like more than a few of their acquaintances, had wondered about the ink she was keeping hidden. In the time he’d known her, she had never worn shorts. He’d nearly cried the day she finally agreed to hang out at the pool with him. He’d wanted her companionship but a part of him was crazy curious about seeing her ink. And he’d been blown away by her torso cascade and how pristine the main images still were after ten years. The outer blending, she’d explained, was recent. Since her divorce.
The shithead he’d walked in on had definitely been there on some sort of business call and not to take a run at picking up a local celebrity. So why was Chad’s gut still clenched? She’d told him repeatedly how she found dating the clientele unwise. Sometimes, he thought she was using that line to fish. Saying it to find out his personal opinion on sleeping with people you worked with, a habit that ran rampant in the food and beverage business. But she’d never once come straight out and ask if he had a girlfriend. They’d covered every other topic under the sun but that.
He was pretty sure her lack of curiosity had something to do with not wanting to reciprocate where private details were concerned. His ego wouldn’t let him think otherwise. There had been more than a few occasions where the situation had been ripe for introducing some friends-with-benefits action. But despite her in-your-face persona, he knew Becca wasn’t easy. Under the jet-black hair, the rock-chick accessories and lashes so thick they were either Tammy Faye fake or a gift from the gods, Becca Wiley was one classy woman. That combo made her supremely desirable to him. And lately, every time he’d rubbed one out, it was images of her that danced through his mind. Her
full, bowed lips wrapped around his cock, her thick lashes framing her blue-green eyes as she looked up at him.
He knew she was divorced. Three years. But that was it. He’d asked once what had gone wrong and she’d erected a wall that would have done the finest bricklayers proud. He had dealt with that pretty well. Until now. They’d need to work on that particular defense mechanism. And his what-the-fuck reaction to some other dude touching her made it clear the time was fast approaching for him to face reality. He had plenty of friends. He wanted more than a platonic relationship with Becca.
If that asshole hadn’t let go of Becca when he’d walked in, she’d have been prematurely enlightened to the fact he desired a lot more from her than afternoon coffee dates, once-a-month matinees and whatever music venues they could agree on. And he couldn’t very well walk up to the counter and knock some douche bag out without explaining to her what prompted him to do so. And he wasn’t quite ready for that.
Pussy.
Possibly, he told himself. For the first time in years, he didn’t want to fuck things up. He had intended to enjoy the friendship they were building. And he was. Eventually, he’d throw it out there. He was a patient man. Except when he saw her being manhandled.
“What the hell was that all about?” he demanded, taking one more look in the direction the dude had headed before giving Becca his full attention.
“The goose that laid the golden handcuffs.” She snorted, two dots of color washing over her cheeks as she walked around the counter and made her way to the large seating area. She plopped down on one of the black leather sofas with a loud whoosh and her hair bounced around her shoulders before lying flat once again.
“Handcuffs? Not hand grenades?” he asked, looking at the drawings that had been scattered across the display case. “Not even a few? Shoved up his ass, for starters. Did he hurt you?”
