Page 17 of Make Me Dream of You

Let’s do it? My cheeks are on fire.

His demeanor, thankfully, is professional. “I’m going to go trace your drawing. It should only take a few minutes—I’m just going to get the lines marked out then I’ll use your sketch as a reference while I’m inking. Can I get you anything? Water?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Five minutes is a short amount of time in pretty much any circumstance, except for in microwave minutes and when you’re waiting alone in a room right before you’re about to get tattooed, apparently.

“Hey.”

I jump at his voice. He chuckles darkly.

“Follow me.”

I follow him back to a private room. The temperature drops instantly at least ten degrees when I walk in. The walls are all white instead of black, music plays softly from overhead. In the center is a black tattoo table, a little stool on wheels, and a metal tray.

He closes the door behind us. “I thought you’d prefer it in here. It’s where I take clients when they’re getting work done on”—he pauses, taking in a sharp breath—“more private areas. But if you’re more comfortable not being in here alone with me, we can?—”

“No, this is good.”

“Good.” His dark eyes lock on mine and my heart pounds like a drum in my ears. “So here’s what I have.” He shows me the stencil he made of my sketch. “I bolded some of the lines up a little, just so the tattoo holds up better over time. Some of those fine lines tend to blur and fade after a while, unless you want to be coming in for a touch-up every year or so.”

He says it like a joke, like of course I wouldn’t want that, but it doesn’t sound so bad to me.

“Looks great,” I say.

“All right, so placement.” He chews on his soft lower lip for a second. “Normally we’d consult first and I’d tell you to come back for your appointment wearing a loose-fitting dress or skirt so we could move the material around where needed. This will be a little trickier. So, tell me at any time if you’re uncomfortable or want to wait. I can always put you on the schedule for another day.”

“The girl up front said you were booked out a year,” I say quietly.

He holds my gaze for a beat, his voice is husky when he says, “I’d come in on a day off to give you your first tattoo.”

Oh. “I don’t want to wait.”

He nods. “Here’s what I’m going to have you do.” He gets a white, folded piece of fabric out of a cabinet and hands it to me as he opens it up. “I’ll have you unzip your jeans again, then hold this drape against yourself while I place the stencils.”

“Okay.”

I do as told, then he kneels to the floor.

Noah Dixon is on his knees, in front of me, eye level with my belly button. So close I can feel the heat from his skin, hear him breathing, smell his hair.

He looks up at me and holy shit. Teen Livvy would die.

The light catches on the angles of his face, his dark blue eyes framed in thick, black lashes, reducing me to a melty mess.

The tip of his tongue wets his lips and then he says, “I’m going to pull these down now, if that’s okay.” He places his fingers lightly on the waistband of my jeans.

“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

I hold the drape over my pubic area between where his hands are on my hips, clutching it tightly with sweaty hands. Noah’s fingertips brush my skin ever so softly as he guides my jeans down my hips and to my midthigh.

“Okay, now these.” He touches the trim of my cotton panties. “You still good?”

“Uh huh.” Holy. Shit.

He pulls my panties down my hips a few inches. Goosebumps raise on my skin in the wake of his touch. I’m dizzy with adrenaline.

The snap of a latex glove makes me open my eyes. He holds my hip with a gloved hand and cleans my skin with a disinfecting wipe with the other.

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