Page 8 of Ink Me Three Times
I laugh, the sound feeling raw and unsteady. "Not even close."
There’s a flicker in his eyes, relief, maybe, or something else I can’t name. Then, he leans in just a little closer, his breath warm against my neck again.
"You sure?" he murmurs, his lips barely brushing my skin.
I turn toward him, unable to stop myself. And suddenly, it’s like the world disappears. The questions. The air. Everything fades except the heat between us.
He must sense it too, because he pulls back just a fraction, that teasing smile still playing at the edges of his lips. His eyes are darker now, but there's something lighter in them too, like he's enjoying this little game we're playing.
"Careful," he says, the words low, but laced with amusement. "You’re lookin’ at me like you might kiss me."
I bite my lip, a laugh caught somewhere between nervous and frustrated. "Maybe I was just trying to figure out what you were thinking."
He leans back slightly, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of my chair as he studies me. His grin widens, but there's a subtle challenge in it, a dare.
"Well, if you’re trying to read my mind, you’re gonna need more than a second."
He’s playing with me now, the air between us thick with something unspoken, like we're both pretending we don’t want to go further, when we both know it’s only a matter of time.
When he finally finishes, he turns the chair so I can see my reflection in the mirror on the far wall.
The tattoo is… stunning.
The chrysanthemum curls across my shoulder blade, petals sharp and soft all at once, rising out of the ashes of a name I never want to see again. It’s bold. Beautiful. Defiant.
It doesn’t erase the past. It claims it.
I stare at it, unblinking.
Then I say, "Thank you."
My voice is hoarse. Wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
He pulls off his gloves with a soft snap and tosses them in the bin. Then, without a word he grabs a jar of ointment and shifts behind me again.
This time, it’s his skin against mine.
His fingers are warm now, the pads rougher than I expected, callused from hours of work, but his touch is slow. Careful. Intoxicating. He spreads the ointment over the fresh ink like he’s memorizing every line he just laid down.
And suddenly I can’t breathe.
I should be used to this part. I’ve had more tattoos than I can count, more hands on my body than I care to admit. But this is different.
This doesn’t feel like a tattoo artist tending to his work.
It feels like a man worshipping a wound.
His fingers glide just below the strap of my bra, pausing at the edge, like he’s asking permission without asking anything at all. My breath hitches, but I don’t move. I don’t stop him.
I want him to touch me.
He does. Barely. The backs of his knuckles skim the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder, and I swear lightning dances through my spine. My knees feel unsteady, even though I’m sitting down.
I let out a slow exhale, and his hand stills. Just for a second. Like he felt it too.
Like he knows.
My mouth goes dry. Heat blooms low in my belly, slow and molten. The kind of ache that’s got nothing to do with the tattoo.
