Page 33 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
Business has been a little slower today, and I’ve taken extra care and time over the job I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been excited for the client to see what I came up with, so when Tess, who now works the reception desk, calls in to tell me that my client has arrived, I jump to my feet, eager to get started.
But now I find myself in front at the client in question, and we’re both just standing there, staring. Neither of us have said a word, and my mind races, knowing this is my territory and I’m supposed to make the first move, but finding myself unable to get my mouth to form any of the words my brain is coming up with.
Holly. That’s her name. Holly McCarty.
It seemed like such an ordinary name. Something that couldn’t possibly belong to its owner.
No, this creature in front of me now is like a glowing, golden being. I swear sparks of light leap from her, capturing me in some kind of electrical force field that renders me utterly useless.
Her jeans look as though they’ve been sprayed on, highlighting a pair of curvy hips and a waist that nips in so tight Ithink I’d be able to put my hands right around it. An urge to walk around the back of her to get a view of her arse takes hold of me, and I have to press my feet to the floor to prevent them taking off on their own accord. Her blonde hair falls in a silky sheet past her shoulders, and she regards me with wide blue eyes that have only the slightest hint of makeup to define them.
Oh, she’s sweetness and sin all swirled up into one glorious package and then poured into jeans so tight they should be illegal. Her mouth is incredible; full lips, naturally pouty—not like most of the girls we get in here, with their dumb faces they pull while taking a hundred selfies a day. I stare at her mouth, imagining sliding things between those perfect lips—a straw, my finger, my dick…
My cock jumps and I swiftly try to think of something else. This tattoo is going to take a couple of hours, and I can’t spend that much time so close to her skin with these kinds of thoughts running through my head. Besides, she looks respectable—despite the jeans—and deserves more than to be perved over by her tattoo artist.
A throat clears nearby, and I jump. Fuck, Tess is still standing behind reception, now watching us both with a knowing expression of amusement on her face.
“I think Holly is ready for you now, Kane,” she says in her American drawl.
“Uh, yeah, course.” I give Holly a bashful grin and tug my hand through my hair, pushing it away from my face. “Come this way.”
How the hell am I going to manage spending the next couple of hours hunched up over that creamy skin, inhaling the scent of her and trying to make small talk when I struggle to so much as utter her name?
I gesture towards my studio, and she slides past me, giving me the opportunity to take in the sight of that bottom wigglingfrom side to side as she walks. Fucking hell, I could balance a pint glass on that thing. She’s like a modern day Marilyn Monroe.
I glance over to find Tess still watching me. She widens her eyes, silently telling me to cut it out. It isn’t as though Tess has any interest in me, far from it. Tess is playing happy families with my boss, Art, and she also owns the building the tattoo studio leases. Tess inherited this place after her aunt died, and moved over to London from the States, only to start up a relationship with Art. Seems like things are going pretty damned well between them. I myself am content enough being a single guy, but, though I’ll never admit it out loud to anyone, whenever I see the way Tess and Art are around each other—their easy affection, teasing, and laughter—something in my chest tightens. I tell myself I’m fine playing the field, but I’m twenty-seven now, and at some point I guess it might be nice to have someone around who actually gives a shit about me for longer than one night.
I force myself to remove my gaze from Holly’s arse as she walks into the room and drops her bag to the floor.
“Take a seat,” I say, my voice coming out almost comically squeaky.
She glances over her shoulder at me, those big blue eyes wide enough for me to fall into.
“Right there?” She gestures to the chair opposite mine, beside the computer.
I nod, and clear my throat. “Yeah.”
She does as I instructed and crosses her legs, and then uncrosses them again. It occurs to me that she’s probably nervous, too, but her nerves have nothing to do with me being in the room, I’m sure. She looks way out of my league. Classy, educated. Like she’s married to some broker in the city. In fact, she isn’t the type of woman I normally get in my bed at all.
I drop into the seat opposite, and, to hide how I feel, launch into work mode. “This is your first tattoo then, Holly?”
“Yeah, it is. My?—”
She cuts herself off, as though she’s about to say something else but then holds herself back.
“I’ve been wanting one for ages,” she says instead of the thing she’d been about to say.
“And how are you with pain?”
She gives a small laugh. “I’ve had worse than a needle.”
I wonder what she means by that, but don’t push for more detail. When in the chair, people tell you what they want to tell you. Some like to chat to take their minds off the feel of the needle puncturing their skin a thousand times over, while others go silent, focusing in on themselves as a way of meditating against the pain. Of course, I’ve had the occasional client who cries and moans the whole way through—often the men more than the women—some not even making it to the end of the tattoo and having to come back another day, which they normally do. There aren’t too many people with half-finished tattoos wandering around London.
Her phone buzzes in her bag, and she lifts her hand, a silent gesture to ask me for a moment to check.
I nod to show it’s fine, and she quickly takes the phone out of her bag and checks the messages. A frown tugs her perfect features downward, and I wonder what happened to cause such an expression. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman who should ever be sad or have anything to worry about.
“Sorry,” she says, slipping the phone onto the small table beside her.
