Page 111 of Show Me How
I pour the ink into the caps, set the needle, and dispose of my gloves before taking a seat. Once I’m facing her, she stops moving altogether. Her eyes are round, full of nerves as they cling to me, a battle of wills taking place within them.
“Tell me which of your fictional men have done this,” I say, the possessive demand obvious.
She shakes her head, slowly coming closer. “It’s not a competition. When they make a gesture, there’s a meaning behind it. They don’t do it to be better than someone else. That’s what makes them gestures in the first place.”
“What if this was always my plan?”
“What was?” she whispers, her fingers bunching her plaid skirt in two fists, lifting it up her thighs slightly. “I’m not trained in how to do this.”
I skip her first question, not ready to say it out loud. “I always planned on teaching you. We’re just skipping a few steps now.”
“A few? We’re skipping all of them. I’ll hurt you.”
“Maybe.”
It goes far beyond wanting to outdo the men she fantasizes about. It’s about proving that I could if I wanted to. That I could be worthy of her if I ever gave myself the chance. I’m not the guy to go out and stand in the rain shouting my feelings for everyone in a ten-block radius to hear. But I am the one who’ll show it in private. Just like this.
“I can’t,” she argues on a heavy exhale.
“Yeah, you can. It’s not as hard as it seems. And I’ll help you.”
Her lip slips beneath her teeth. I smooth a hand down my thigh and lift my hand for her to take. She eyes it before slipping her fingers through mine and letting me pull her between my legs.
“You can’t possibly want this logo on you forever. Not by someone who will mess it up.”
“It’s the only tattoo I want right now. It’s perfect for this place, and I’m so fucking proud of what you created.”
“Where?” she croaks, blinking quickly.
My heart twists as I bring our hands to my chest. Where the only blank space of skin on my torso hides beneath my shirt. “Right here.”
“Stop.”
She tries to pull her hand free, but I keep it trapped in mine. The unshed tears glistening in her eyes are enough to send me to my knees on the ground in front of her, but I stay seated. I squeeze her fingers and tug, forcing her close enough that I can palm desperately at her waist.
“I’m proud of you,” I repeat slowly, so quietly a slight breeze could blow it away.
Her chin tucks as she drops her head, inhaling a shaky breath. “You’ll guide me as I do this? So that I don’t hurt you?”
“Yeah, princess. I’ll be here.”
“What if I hate doing this?”
“Then you hate it. You’ll never have to do it again,” I declare.
When she looks up at me again, there’s clarity in an endless sea of blue. “Okay.”
I hold her firmly, not ready to release her yet. My palm is hot, searing into her waist before I let it slide beneath the ruffled hem of her shirt. She shivers against me, lips parting around silent words. I release her hand just long enough to tug my shirt over my head before taking it again, clutching onto it. Her cheeks fill with a blush that matches her skirt.
“Sit on my lap, princess,” I instruct, already reaching beneath her thigh to lift her. “It’ll be easier this way.”
She doesn’t hesitate. And once she’s seated on me, I hand her a pair of the smallest gloves we have here.
“I’ll prep everything. You just need to watch.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I get to work while she keeps her eyes fixed on me, taking note of the way I shave the area, apply pre-stencil lotion, and the technique I use to put her design to my skin. She absorbs it all like an eager student, betraying her initial worry of hating this.
