Page 27 of The Tattoo Artist

A part of me wanted to back out, to play it safe and stick to just getting a tattoo on my legs. But another part of me, the one that Cathy had awakened, urged me to take a leap of faith and embrace the daring side of myself. Ares’ hands, warm and firm, guided the zipper down. The dress loosened around my chest, and I instinctively held onto it, suddenly self-conscious about revealing my body.

But his hands gently push mine away, letting the dress fall to the floor. With the dress gone, I stood there in only my bra and underwear, exposing my full physique to him. My breasts, a modest c-cup, my waist, smaller than my hips, and a very distinct hourglass figure. It felt as if I was baring my soul to him, displaying a vulnerable side of me that I had rarely shown to anyone.

I could feel Ares’ eyes on me, and even without looking, I knew he saw more than just my physical appearance. He saw a glimpse of the real me, the part of me that had been hidden away for so long.

“So, fucking beautiful,” he murmurs softly, his voice almost reverent. His words sent a surge of warmth through me, making me feel cherished and admired.

In that moment, I knew I had made the right choice.

He hands me two patches, and my trembling fingers struggle to put them over my nipples. My heart is pounding like a wild beast in my chest, and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. I take off my bra, feeling exposed and vulnerable, laying onto the bed as instructed.

Ares settles into the chair beside me, pen in hand, and places his other hand on my stomach. His touch sends shivers down my spine, and I can’t help but gasp at the sensation. My eyes remain fixated on the ceiling.

He leans in closer, his broad shoulders blocking my view, and begins to draw the butterfly with utmost precision.

“Is it going to hurt?” I find the courage to look up at him as he continues to sketch the outline on my skin.

“You’ll see,” he replies cryptically, his fingers continuing their delicate dance. I can hear the faint buzz of the tattoo machine, and it sends shivers down my spine. My parents would never approve of this, and if either of them found out I would be in deep trouble. Not only for getting a tattoo behind their backs but because I’ve been spending time with a man they would never approve of. I mean, who would approve of a six-foot four man with tattoos all over?

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, sitting up abruptly, my arms wrapped protectively around my chest.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he moves closer, resting his hand on my lower back. “Yes, you can,” he reassures me with a hint of determination in his voice.

“It’s going to hurt,” I protest, feeling the panic rising.

“You can squeeze my arm if you want,” he suggests gently, his warm breath brushing against my ear, “and if it becomes unbearable, I’ll stop.”

“You promise, Ares?” My voice wavers with uncertainty, but his comforting touch soothes my nerves.

“I promise, butterfly, trust me” he whispers, and butterflies flutter in my stomach at the affectionate nickname. I nod, trying to quell the rising fear, and lie back down on the bed. I should trust him. He wouldn’t hurt me intentionally. Right? Unless he’s like one of those men that like a bit of pain with their pleasure.

The tattoo machine hums to life, and I grip Ares’ strong arms for support. The sharp sensation of the needle puncturing my skin causes me to flinch, but I bite my lip to suppress any cries of pain. Ares’ hand on my stomach offers both reassurance and distraction.

With every stroke of the needle, I can’t help but feel drawn to Ares. Why him? I ask myself. Why am I drawn to him? And yet after my kiss with Diávolos…I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of his hands on my skin. His profile is captivating, every contour of his face exuding a rugged beauty that mesmerises me. Compared to his flawless features, I can’t help but feel self-conscious about my own imperfections. My fingers tighten around his bicep as the pain intensifies.

But Ares is relentless, his determination evident in the unwavering focus he maintains on his work. “Distract me, Ares,” I plead in pain.

“What do you want me to do, butterfly?” His voice is soothing, and it momentarily eases the discomfort.

“Talk to me... tell me something... do something,” I manage to say, biting my lip to endure the throbbing pain. His hand pauses. “I didn’t know it would be this painful,” I admit, a tear escaping my eye.

“I know, but we need to finish this,” he says softly, gently wiping away the tear from my cheek, “so you talk about anything you want.”

As he resumes his work, I try to distract myself from the pain by sharing my thoughts. “I wanted to experience new things; I have strict Catholic parents who keep me sheltered,” I confess.

“You know getting a tattoo is a sin, butterfly,” he reminds me.

“Where are you from?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Greece, Assos, Kefalonia,” he replies, and his voice carries a hint of nostalgia. His dark curls cascade over his forehead, and without thinking, my hand reaches out to brush them aside.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

Almost as if he is used to it, used to me touching him.

His hair is soft, just as I imagined it would be. He closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the unexpected touch, and then opens them to meet my gaze. “Normally, I never let my clients touch me, butterfly,” he whispers, his voice low and husky.

“Oh, sorry...” I start to withdraw my hand, feeling a little embarrassed by my impulsive gesture.