Page 72 of The First Spark

Ash perches on a low stool, his gloved hands arranging the inks in front of him. He moves with the practiced ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and how fabulous he is at doing it. Every motion is confident, calculated. Once again, not a hint of insecurity, just the quiet swagger of a man who’s a master of his craft.

A master with women, too.

Ash glances at his client, shooting her a lopsided grin. “While I finish getting ready, why don’t you introduce yourself, gorgeous?”

Their gazes lock for a beat before she offers a wave and sexy smile to the crowd.

I thought she was striking from a distance, but I wasmistaken. Striking is an understatement. The woman is stunning—a sexually charged mash-up of Snow White and Jessica Rabbit—with long jet-black hair and skin just a shade darker than mine. But unlike me, several pieces of ink highlight her skin.

Tugging up the sleeve of my sweater, I glance at the now dry lily painted on my forearm and wonder why she suits the inked look, and I don’t.

Hating how her beauty blends effortlessly with Ash’s chiseled good looks, while I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, no matter how you position it.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” a man calls out from the crowd.

The dark-haired woman smiles in his direction. “Hi, lover. My name is Raven Scarlett, but you can call me baby.”

“Oh, baby,” the man in the crowd responds, letting loose with a wolf whistle.

Of course, Raven’s voice is soft and breathy, a la Marilyn Monroe. A bedroom voice to match her bedroom eyes and bedroom curves.

She’s a walking, talking wet dream, and the crowd is eating her up.

Mina jostles me in the ribs. “Raven Scarlett? What kind of name is that?”

What kind indeed?

I shrug, determined to appear unaffected. “Probably an adult film star, or the child of circus folk. Hard to know.”

Not that it matters. The woman could call herself Piggly Wiggly and the men would collapse at her feet. Half a dozen words from her ruby lips and the entire room fallsunder her spell. I swear, it’s like watching some kind of magic trick, the way every set of eyes gravitate toward her, completely enchanted.

Down jealousy. Just because Ash is inking her doesn’t mean he’s fucking her. I’m sure he doesn’t sleep with every single client.

Right?

God, I hate my brain sometimes. She’s such a sadistic bitch.

Although, unless there are two women named Raven hanging around Black Lotus, this is the same woman Ash escorted to the wine bar earlier. Onmyrecommendation.

Determined to get my brain on another track—any at this point—I grab a tablet off a nearby table and open Ash’s portfolio before thrusting it under Mina’s nose. “Have you seen Ash’s work before?”

Mina shakes her head, flipping through a few photos. “You’re not kidding. His designs are so realistic.”

“Braden said Ash is the best in the business with portraits. It’s like looking at a photograph.”

“What do they call this style?” Mina asks, holding up a photo of an elderly man sitting in a rocking chair.

“Photorealism,” Ash’s voice rumbles behind me, right before his hand drifts down to palm my ass. “Excuse me, Little One.”

I glance over my shoulder and give him a wink. “Excuseyouis more like it.”

“You love it.” It’s a declarative statement as his hand tightens ever so slightly, giving my peach a squeeze.

I turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest as I arch a brow at him. “Do I, though? Thought I was tricky to read.”

“For some people, but I’ve got a good handle on what makes you wet.”

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