Page 46 of Devilish Ink

The only fucking problem?

Lee could see it, too. Clear as day. It was, after all, right there on his chest.

I cleared my throat, suddenly embarrassed as Lee studied his latest tattoo in the mirror.

“Something else from your past?” he asked, tracing his finger along the chains that bound the naked couple together.

When I didn’t answer, words stuck in my constricted throat, he looked up at me. My cheeks were already warm, but they burned when his eyes darkened.

“Something fromourfuture, perhaps?”

“It’s just art,” I said, doing my best to keep the unsteady waver from my voice.

“Art imitates life.”

“Isn’t it the other way around?” I asked.

“Fuck, I hope so.”

The enigma of him shocked me. His quiet air betrayed his boldness. He wasn’t just please and thank yous, he had a dirty mouth.

There was kindness mixed with a roughness; he would offer to walk me home and in the next breath promise to kill for me.

The confusing combination sent a wave of heat through my body.

I licked my lips, finding them dry.

His attention was still on the tattoo.

I took this opportunity to drink him in with my eyes, to memorise how his serious brows looked alongside the crinkle of humour in the corners of his eyes, how his soft, pouty lips looked against his wide, sharp jaw, how such a ferocious, brutal-looking body, now covered in tattoos, protected a kind, thoughtful heart.

I’d tuck all these things away for later for my time alone with my charcoal pencils.

For my time alone with my fingers.

“They’re in chains,” I said. “Why would anyone want that for their future?”

Lee’s grin was sly, his eyes flashing as he focused on me. “I suppose it depends on who you’re chained to.”

An image of myself chained to Lee—chained down by him, for him—rushed through my head.

All the things I wanted him to do to me. Things I hadn’t allowed myself to desire in so long. I had to squeeze my thighs together to stop from moaning out loud.

I could never tell him that I’d tattooed my fucking fantasy onto his chest. That I’d cursed him to see what I saw in the mirror every lonely night: need unfulfilled.

The hair at the nape of my neck stuck, sticky with sweat. I pulled it up, rolling it into a messy bun to get relief. But it didn’t help.

Not even the metal of the cash register had any coolness left in it. I pressed my inner wrist against its sides like it was a tap of cold water, but it was as warm as freshly brewed tea. There was no escape.

Lee joined me and once again he stood too close.

He hadn’t put on his shirt though.

I vaguely made it out still draped over the back of the couch; it seemed to waver like a mirage at the edge of my periphery. He normally put it on at this point, not standing there like an adonis half-naked still.

Was it the heat that made him forget it? Or did he know that there was no point in him putting it back on?

“Let me offer you a discount,” I said, trying to cling onto the safety of our little routine.

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