Page 35 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
That doesn’t stop my mortification, however, as he tucks a sheet of white paper into the waistband of my jeans, which are now down past my hips, and his fingers graze my body. Faint silvery lines of stretch marks, faded now and barely noticeable, scrawl across my skin. Still they embarrass me, another sign of my imperfection among all his bad-boy sexiness.
I can’t keep reacting this way. The tattoo is going to take a couple of hours, and he’ll be touching me practically the whole time.
Kane pulls his chair up to the bed. It’s on wheels, allowing him easy movement around the room without him needing to get up. He’s done some kind of transfer of the tattoo he drew onto a piece of paper, and now he frowns slightly as he concentrates, placing it against my skin on the spot I want, before transferring it so he has an outline he can work with.
“How’s that?” he asks, moving away so I can get a better look.
The shape of the fish looks as though it’s swimming up over my hip, splashes of water flicking from its tail and fins.
I smile, trying to stave off my nerves. “Perfect.”
He must notice how I try to rub my sweaty palms off on the seat of my jeans.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” he tells me, his head tilting to one side. He gives a chuckle, and my stomach flips, but not because of nerves this time. “I’ve had grown men in here who’ve cried and begged me to stop in the middle of getting inked.”
I cock my eyebrows. “That’s not actually making me feel better.”
He laughs again. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I grit my teeth and tense.
“Try to relax, take some long deep breaths. It won’t hurt as much as you’re expecting, I promise. It would be different if you were having it done on a bony area—like your foot or spine—but the hip has got plenty of padding.”
Plenty of padding! My cheeks burn. Is that his way of letting me know he thinks I’m fat? I know I have curves—I’m not some waifish teenager.
Kane seems to realise what he said. “I mean, not that it’s fat or anything. I mean, itisfat, but you’re not fat. You’re curvy and gorgeous.” His eyes widen, and he smacks his hand—the one not holding the needle—against his forehead. “Okay, I’m just going to stop talking now.”
I watch his rambling in confused horror, unsure who’s more mortified, me or him. Does he really mean he thinks I’m curvy and gorgeous? No, he only said that to hide the comment about me having fat hips. Jesus Christ. Why the hell had I thought this was a good idea?
“Let’s just get on with this, yeah?” he says, trying to recover.
“Yes, please,” I reply, my voice a little more terse than I would like.
Still, I can’t get the thought of him saying I have fat hips out of my head. Dammit. I thought I looked pretty damn good when I left the house this morning, too. Even my sister, Nicki, who I spoke to on Skype, told me so, and my sister never compliments me on anything. Of course, I hadn’t told Nicki where I was going either. This is supposed to be my little secret— my way of taking a piece of myself back again after everything—and I’m going to let some twenty-year-old with a big mouth spoil things for me. And besides, he might not be able to control his tongue, but he’s an excellent artist, and that’s all that matters. After today, I’ll never need to see him again.
Kane rolls his chair back towards me, and I fix my gaze on some of the drawings framed and hung around the walls. They’rebeautiful works—cherry blossom, and dragons, lotus flowers, and geishas—all with an oriental theme. It’s clear he specialises in this kind of artwork, and I remind myself that I’m in good hands.
“You ready?” he asks from where he’s positioned at my waist.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more awkward situation in my life, and I’ve been in plenty of awkward situations.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“Here we go then.”
I try not to look at the needle in his hand as he leans over my body, and I take a deep breath.
4
KANE
Itry to concentrate on my art rather than torture myself about how I’ve just managed to call this stunning, sexy woman fat while she’s lying on my table, her jeans half pulled down. If she wasn’t in the room, I’d take myself over to the nearest wall and bash my head against it.
At least she hadn’t made her excuses and run from the room. I wouldn’t blame her if she had. I must look like a rough, uncouth idiot in her eyes. Thank God I’m good at the one thing she came here for. Ink.
I focus on what I’m doing, working with black ink initially to create the outline I imprinted on her skin. Beads of blood pop from her creamy flesh, and I wipe the blood, mixing the red with the black ink in a way that’s almost beautiful in itself.
So far, she’s taking it like a pro. I’ve heard a couple of sharp intakes of breath, and watched her jaw clench, and her fingers tighten into fists on certain parts, but she hasn’t told me to stop or made any kind of a fuss.
