The suite is tiny. Especially with the client's boyfriend on the other stool.
I'm a foot from Dean. Less.
He's in the middle of the tattoo, but my body doesn't care. It begs me to touch him. To stop him. To do whatever it takes to get my clothes off and his hands on me.
I press my palms into my quads. Focus on the soft fabric of my black jeans. On the way my nails curl into the denim.
When I'm calm enough to concentrate, I bring my gaze to his right hand. I focus on the way his fingers curl around the tattoo gun. On the way his forearm flexes and relaxes as he works.
The tattoo takes an hour. I barely make it through the check out.
As soon as I can, I rush to the bathroom. But washing my hands in cold water isn't enough. Splashing my cheeks, forehead, and neck isn't enough.
I'm burning up.
I'm not sure how I survive our second tattoo. The appointments are back-to-back. No time for lectures on technique. Or teasing. Or staring at him like I'm desperate to get him naked.
This is a geometric design. It's cool, modern, trendy.
Dean is his usual funny, charming self. He turns the flirting off—he always does when a woman brings her boyfriend.
He doesn't ask about my panties or my night or when I last touched myself. He doesn't suggest a game of ten fingers or truth or truth or tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.
It's weird. But then it isn't. Not really. We had two appointments like this last week.
He's incredibly good at reading the mood in the suite. At tuning himself to what the client needs. And this girl needs quiet reassurance and distraction from her boyfriend.
Finally, we finish.
I gush over the work. Bring them to the counter so Emma can check them out—she's Leighton's more permanent replacement. Since Dean "can't have his apprentice running around doing errands."
Apparently, she's Brendon's younger sister. I can see the resemblance. They're both tall with intense brown eyes and dark hair.
"Nice." She smiles at the client as she hands over the receipt. "I want one just like that."
The client beams. Signs on the dotted line. "You should. I'm so in love." She turns to her boyfriend. Slides her arms around his neck. "Are you in love?"
"Yeah." He stares back into her eyes all goo-goo ga-ga.
She rises to her tiptoes to kiss him.
He wraps his arms around her. Kisses back. With tongue.
Emma shoots me an ew gross look.
I nod.
Dean chuckles. "Ink is an aphrodisiac."
"Since when?" Emma raises a brow. "That sounds like a load of bull."
He nods to the clients. Shut the fuck up. "How would you know, Em?"
"You don't have any?" I ask.
She nods. "When you grow up with a tattoo artist brother, the whole thing kinda loses its appeal." She looks to Dean. "I guess it's different when your brother is all old and weird. Like he's basically your dad."
"He does have a daddy vibe." My cheeks flush. Did I just say that? I'm not even sure what that means.
Emma's nose scrunches in distaste. "I did not hear that." She looks to the receipt. Points to the forty percent tip with a thumbs-up. "You guys are all done."
They keep making out.
Dean turns to Emma. "You got this?"
"Is it really part of my job description?" she asks.
"Get used to it. Happens with pretty much every couple. It's the ink. Or maybe it's me." He tugs his t-shirt up his stomach, showing off his taught abs. "I'm irresistible."
"God, I thought Dean was annoying in small doses. But large ones…" She wipes her forehead like she's wiping off the sweat of a heavy work out. "How do you deal?"
"I don't," I say.
"He's the worst, isn't he?" she teases.
"He's incorrigible," I say.
"Fuck, sunshine. You know you have to dumb it down for me." He motions for me to follow him.
I do.
He grabs my backpack from behind the counter and leads me to the back room. "You finish Han Solo?"
"Yeah. Why?"
He pushes his shirt up his sleeve. "Do me."
"Right here?" I pretend to undo my jeans. "Sure. You have a condom?"
His smile lights up his dark eyes. "I'm already corrupting you."
"Maybe I'm already corrupted."
He shakes his head.
I nod.
"Show me the goods."
"Oh. Right." We're not flirting. We're pretending like Saturday night never happened. Maybe. I can never tell where I stand with him. "You're holding my backpack."
He hands it over.
I set it on the desk. Dig out my sketchbook. Find the page with my latest Han. It's a little different. He's wearing only his vest and pants, no shirt, and he's kneeling on his blaster as it shoots a laser bullet.
It's all incredibly phallic.
"Nice." He taps his skin. "Make it happen."
He's in the way of the printer, but I don't ask him to move. My front brushes his as I pass him.
My nipples perk. My sex clenches. My veins buzz with nervous energy.
I'm shaking.
I steady my hands enough to set the mock-up on the printer. Scan. Print.
He keeps his body behind mine as I snip the edges from the design.
Stays close as I clean him up, peel the plastic from the paper, press it to his skin, wet it.
I'm right there. Inches from him. Touching him.
But it's not enough.
I want more than his shoulder.
I want him naked in front of me.
I want to be naked in front of him.
My blush spreads over my cheeks and chest. It's bizarre. I haven't wanted to be naked in front of someone since before my diagnosis.
My body has been my enemy.
Then a stranger.
But now, God, I want to kiss and make nice.
To get to know every inch and cranny.
Of me. Of him. Of us together— "That's plenty of time," he says.
"Right." I peel the paper from his skin.
Perfect. The design transfers.
He looks down at me. "How is it?"
I study the tattoo like it isn't a silly joke. Like it's exactly what Dean wants. It does fit his cheeky attitude. And it fits his shoulder too. The lines fall over his skin just so. "It's good."
"Only good?"
"Really good."
He takes my hand and leads me back into the main room. Past Walker and Ryan—why are they in the lobby this early? All the way to his suite.
He studies the design in the mirror. "Fuck. That is good." He turns to me. "Good job."
The compliment does nothing to ease the flush in my cheeks. "Thanks." I stare up into his eyes. He's being genuine. It's weird. But I'm starting to get used to it. "But?"
"No buts."
"Do you want any changes? It is your tattoo."
"Yeah." He looks back to the mirror. Studies the reflection. "More details on the gun."
"I can't go too small. The ink spreads over time. In a few years it will be blurry."
He smiles knowingly.
"That was a trick question."
"Maybe." He shrugs. "Add a few. Big ones."
"Sure. I'll have it for you next week."
"Good." He looks around the room. Ryan and Walker are still in the lobby. But now Brendon is with them and the amorous couple is gone. "Let's do this."
"Do what?"
He's already in the lobby. "Hey." He claps his hands over his head. "Announcement. Chloe is gonna be my full-time apprentice."
Emma shoots me a curious look. Like she's trying to decide how I feel about that.
"That was your announcement?" Brendon asks. "Not sure anyone needed to get here early for that."
"All right. Don't care. I'm in heaven. Chloe working under me." Dean winks. "What more could I want?"
Walker rises from the bench with a chuckle. "In your dreams."
"I'll make those nightmares." Ryan's threat is playful. He's even smiling. He looks to me. "You okay with this?"
I nod.
"You sure?" Walker asks. "Dean is—"
"Annoying?" I offer.
Emma laughs. "It's good she sees your true self."
"Em, baby. How could you say that? You and I, we're like this—" He presses his first two fingers together. "You get me."
"How horrifying." She shakes her head. "I do not." She looks to me. "Why Dean and not one of the other guys?"
"Well, the thing is, the other guys at the shop are smoking hot. But Dean… his personality ruins the whole thing," I deadpan.
"Fuck. Ow." Dean mimes being stabbed in the gut.
I shrug.