Page 17 of The Tattoo Artist

Ares shrugged nonchalantly, “don’t think so.”

I settle into the chair beside the long bed where people usually got their tattoos. Ares walks over to his desk, handing me a drawing pen.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, intrigued by his intentions.

He stood up and casually slid his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. My eyes widen at the unexpected sight, and I quickly look away, feeling a bit flustered. It was the first time I had seen a half-naked man, and I wasn’t sure how to react. But curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t help but steal a quick glance.

Ares’ body was nothing short of breath-taking.

The fabric of his shirt clung to him like a second skin as he moved, the material stretching and contracting with the subtle play of his muscles. With each motion, the shirt inched upward, unveiling the sculpted terrain of his abdomen and chest.

His toned physique was a masterpiece, accentuated by the play of light and shadow dancing across the defined contours.

As the shirt gracefully slid over his muscular arms, the fabric grazed his skin, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Downward it descended, tracing the curvature of his back. His back muscles flexed slightly, creating a mesmerising display of strength and grace.

Intricate tattoos adorned his torso, each design telling a story of his journey through life. Yet, his chest remained untouched, like an unexplored territory, a canvas awaiting its masterpiece.

“We’re not going to have sex.” I spill out.

“And what would a pen have to do with sex, butterfly?”

“I don’t know. I-You just took your shirt off-” I stammered, trying to regain my composure.

“If I wanted to have sex with you, your clothes would be off first.”

Butterflies.

“Right. Well. Why are we here then?”

“Draw me something to tattoo,” he said, his voice low and magnetic. He reclines onto the chair, his back against the soft surface, and his stomach bared to the ceiling.

“Are you being serious?” I ask, my heart fluttering with anticipation.

He nodded, his lips curving into a sly grin. “You only have one hour, and a half left, get drawing.”

“Anything?” I question, a small smile spreading across my cheeks.

“Anything.”

Stepping closer to Ares, I could feel the tension in the air, the electrifying chemistry between us. Ignoring the exhilaration that coursed through my veins, I focused on the task at hand.

I rested my hand on his sculpted chest, feeling the heat emanating from his skin. His breath hitched slightly, and a spark of connection surged between us.

“Sorry, I have cold hands.” I whisper.

As I continue drawing on Ares’ chest, the butterflies in my own stomach seemed to match each stroke of the pen. It was strange how the design came to me—an impulse driven by the tattoos on his hands. They seemed to hold a story, a hidden world of sentiment and meaning that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

The butterfly took shape beneath my hand, and I added other intricate designs around it, feeling an undeniable connection to the canvas before me. Ares remained still; his eyes fixed on my every move. The intimacy of the moment hung in the air like a charged electric current, fuelling the chemistry between us.

Unaware of the passing time, I focus intently on making sure every detail was symmetrical, my heart pounding with each delicate stroke.

My phone rang, breaking the spell, I saw my mother’s name on the screen, reminding me of the reality waiting outside this intimate bubble. “I have to go; my mum is asking for me,” I said reluctantly.

Ares nodded, understanding, but before I could leave, I grab his shirt and hand it to him.

“You can’t look at it,” I said.

“I won’t,” he assured me with a playful smile.

---