Page 7 of Strelitzias in Spring

3

Wolf

Looking down at the woman before me, I pause, hovering my tattoo gun over her smooth ribcage. Her body convulses, a shiver working its way down her spine, and I frown, looking up at her before glancing toward the thermostat. It’s set to seventy-three degrees and is comfortable, if not a little too warm. The fuck is she shivering for?

“Are you cold?”

“N-no. I’m good. Fine,” she responds, shaking her head rapidly. I narrow my eyes and look down, taking in her flat stomach and the way it clenches against my touch. I don’t know if she’s nervous or turned on, but it’s late, and I want to get home. Accepting her words as truth, I lean back down and settle my tattoo gun against her skin.

“It’s going to sting a little, but it’ll be over quick.” Pressing down on the peddle, I start tracing the delicate script, going slowly to make sure there are no blowouts in the cursive lettering. Objectively, she’s attractive with her short blonde hair, warm honey skin, and large dark eyes. Her lips are plump in the center, turning down on the sides like her face is set in a perpetual pout.

I’m full of shit- she’s more than pretty, but I try to block out her appearance and how good she smells, like cinnamon and cloves and vanilla. She’s like a cake laid out before me.

I notice that her diaphragm has stopped moving, and I look up. The poor girl’s face is turning red from oxygen deprivation. Don’t get me wrong, I like breath play, but not like this when I’m in the middle of working. “Breathe for me. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Can I keep going?”

“Yes,” she answers simply before closing her eyes and cutting off all communication. I press on the peddle and resume, breathing in her scent as she lays like a barely breathing corpse beneath my hands. The process of tattooing is methodical, a release that gives me so much fucking joy that I can’t imagine never doing it again. The need to create, to draw permanent art for my clients, is the same reason why I told my coach I was done with MMA; I’ve been lucky the last few years and haven’t suffered any career-ruining injuries to my hands. Straddling both the shop and my commitment to the octagon meant that I couldn’t devote all of myself to either, and I’m fucking done. Done with training at dawn and dusk to get my gym hours in and done with running on caffeine and Red Bull to get through my clients. I’m twenty-five, too young to feel this goddamn old.

My gaze travels back to the woman before me. Next to my mammoth body, she looks as dainty as the tattoo she requested. She breathes in deeply, expanding her ribcage before pulling it back in. The unexpected movement causes my line to shake.

“Fuck,” I murmur, passing over the line again to thicken the weight. The script on her body was supposed to be a fine line, but I have to compensate for my slip-up.

“Is everything okay?” her soft voice murmurs from above me.

“Yep.” I pop the “p,” refusing to glance up at the caramel eyes I feel on my profile. I wish I could rush through this shit, but my pride and artistry won’t let me. Even if everyone else thought it was a good tattoo, I’d never fuck a client over and make them leave with a half-assed rushed piece, especially not a girl whose flawless skin looks like it needs more of my artwork to accentuate its beauty.

I finish up the minuscule tattoo and finally set my gun down. I look down at the work and regard it critically. Her skin is red, irritated from the ink and gun, but I can already tell that it’s going to heal nicely. She shifts in the chair, tilting her head to try and catch a glimpse of the tattoo. As she moves, her shirt rides up, and I catch sight of the underside of her tits. I look away quickly, grabbing the disposable wipes from my station and wiping off the excess ink on her skin.

She’s been silent for the last ten minutes, not even a gasp or intake of breath since she asked me if I was okay. It was a quick tattoo, but the ribs are a sensitive spot, and I’m impressed by her pain tolerance. I’m about to commend her when my cousin walks into the room with a large, tattooed guy behind her.

So, this is Dante. I take him in, noticing that he has impressive amounts of ink on his body. His work is good—not as good as mine, but the artistry is solid, and I reason that at least he has good taste.

As soon as I make eye contact with Celeste, she rushes over to us and places a hand on my shoulder, leaning over to take a look at the work on Serena’s body. A low growl sounds off behind me, and I swallow a laugh. I look over to Celeste’s boyfriend and barely contain my laughter at the scowl marring his face.

“You cannot be serious,” Celeste says, an incredulous tone in her voice.

“I don’t like seeing your hands on another man,” the fucker says. I have to give him credit; at least he’s possessive and protective.

“He’s my cousin, you ogre. Don’t make this weird.” At the same time that Celeste speaks, Serena shifts in my chair, drawing CeCe’s eyes down. My cousin’s expression softens, and she praises the small artwork. “It looks so beautiful. What does it mean?”

“Butterfly,” I offer, and Celeste whips her head to me.

“Since when do you speak Spanish?”

I roll my eyes. She should know that I would never tattoo something without confirming the definition, connotations, and denotations. The last thing I need is for someone to walk out of my shop with a tattoo that means hairy dicks when what they wanted was “from an acorn.”

“I don’t speak Spanish, but I asked your little siren what it meant and looked it up before I let her ink it on her skin. She could have fucked up and put ‘scrotum’ under her tit instead of ‘butterfly.’”

“Don’t call me that,” Serena snaps out in a hard voice, and I look up, seeing the strain in her eyes and the set of her jaw. Since she entered my space, she’s been nervous but not uncomfortable. Now, it looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

I’m not going to lie, I’m fucking intrigued by the change and the sudden fire darkening her eyes.

“What?” I ask, making sure I understand her.

“Siren. Don’t call me that.”

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