Page 18 of Make Me Dream of You

My skin burns under his scrutiny as he concentrates on his task. Wherever he touches me, instantly on fire, as he places one stencil on the skin just inside my hipbone and then the other. He takes his time, carefully making sure they match up evenly.

He holds up a hand mirror. “How’s the placement?”

I examine them in the mirror for a minute, holy shit, this is really happening. I’m getting tattooed. By Noah Dixon.

“Good,” I manage to squeak out.

“Good.” He gives me the hint of a smirk. “Go lie down on the table and put the drape wherever is most comfortable for you.”

I lie down as he’s turned away, getting his gun ready and unbagging needles and filling a little cup full of black ink.

He swivels around, wheels squeaking across the floor, and picks up the tattoo gun with a black-gloved hand. “Ready?”

Nope. “Yep.”

“Remember to breathe,” he says.

Am I not breathing? I’m not. I let out a breath and unclench my fists.

“You’ll do great,” he says, scooting in closer. He adjusts the drape, covering me up more and sort of tucking it around to keep it in place. He does it with care and gentleness, like my comfort and modesty are important to him. It makes me feel safe. At the same time, it reminds me he doesn’t see me as anything but a client or friend and my ears burn as I think I wouldn’t mind at all if he accidentally saw more of me. If he wanted to see more of me…

“Here we go, Livvy.”

I like the way he says my name. “Okay.” I close my eyes.

The sound of the tattoo gun is more jarring than the first touch of the needle to my skin.

I try to focus on my breathing, slow and steady. But I keep getting distracted by his touch—the way his wrist is resting against my bare thigh as he tattoos, how his gloved hand is firm on my hip, helping me stay still while reassuring me at the same time. And every time he wipes ink away, his fingers grazing over that sensitive skin no man has touched before, my heartrate skyrockets.

“When did you start drawing?” Noah asks, head down, pulling long lines with the needle.

It’s like he’s dragging a knife through my skin while vibrating my bones. I try to concentrate on the question. It hurts but somehow, not as much as I’d imagined it would.

“I don’t know. Always? I got really into it in middle school, I guess. I didn’t have many friends, so during breaks and lunch I secluded myself away with a notebook instead of socializing.” That’s probably why I continued not to make new friends in high school.

“You’re very talented.”

This is the part where I should speak up and tell him about my art degree and how I love to paint and how my dream is to have a solo show in a real gallery. But instead, I say, “Thank you.”

I’m sweating. Not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the fact that Noah’s breath is warm against my skin or the way his thumb swipes over my hipbone.

“I should have you design something for me to get tattooed,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Oh.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m okay.” I think.

He’s quiet for a while and I zone out, letting him focus, finding the steady buzz of the tattoo gun almost hypnotizing.

I don’t know how much time has passed when he speaks again.

“I did the line work on this one. I’m going to move to the other side. Let me know if you need a break.” He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, then rolls the stool and tray to the other side of the table.

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