Page 7 of Christmas with Four Tattoo Artists

At well over six feet tall, he was a towering figure, with long, raven-black hair that he often pulled back into a low ponytail, exposing the sharp angles and planes of his face. His gray eyes, so much like Kai's, were pools of cold steel, intense and arresting, piercing through your soul like an x-ray.

Finn's sense of style extended his bad-boy allure. His wardrobe seemed to mainly consist of worn-in jeans, hugging his muscular legs in all the right places, and plain tank tops that did nothing to hide the strength and power of his tattooed arms. Each piece of clothing he wore was an understated testament to his raw masculinity, simple yet impactful in portraying the unapologetically bold man he was.

The accessories he adorned himself with added a unique edge to his persona. A collection of silver chains hung around his neck, each one a different design, their metallic gleam catching the studio lights as they rested against his defined chest. The chains were often layered with dog tags, a personal touch that hinted at a deeper meaning kept close to his heart.

His wrists were often encircled by leather and silver bracelets, rugged and worn, much like the man himself. They clinked softly against each other whenever he moved, a harmonious rhythm that I'd come to associate with him.

And then there were the rings. Finn had an affinity for silver rings. He wore them on almost every finger, each one unique, some etched with elaborate designs, others plain and thick. They drew attention to his strong, artist's hands, hands that created beauty with every stroke, hands that I often found myself fantasizing about running all over my body, teasing my nipples before venturing down to the warmth between my thighs.

His body was a living testament to his commitment to fitness. Muscular arms corded with strength, broad shoulders that spoke of power, and a torso that rippled with well-defined abs, Finn was a walking manifestation of masculine allure. But what truly drew the eye was the art that adorned his skin.

His body was a canvas of dark gothic artistry—each piece telling a tale, some indiscernible to the casual observer, others hauntingly clear in their intent. Portraits of menacing creatures, elaborate scripts that hinted at personal mantras, and graphic designs that showcased an eerie beauty… every tattoo was a piece of the enigma that was Finn.

I knew bits and pieces of his past, he and Kai had inherited the studio from their notorious father, Jack “Blackjack” Preston—the namesake of our establishment. They had stepped out of their father's criminal shadow; however, creating a reputable and respected business, leaving behind only the name.

Yet, despite his intimidating exterior, Finn carried a certain charm, an undeniable magnetism that drew you in and kept you hooked. Every time our paths crossed or our eyes met, it felt like an electric shock jolting my senses, making my heart flutter and my skin tingle with anticipation.

I swallowed, realizing I'd been staring a bit too long. Before I could tear my eyes away, he turned to look at me, his gray gaze meeting mine across the room, and for a moment, time stood still. It was an unspoken conversation, a silent exchange that left me flustered and with a head full of fantasies I would never voice out loud.

Once Finn and I broke eye contact, my gaze roamed over to James Booth, the third owner of Blackjack's. As always, James cut a striking figure, standing tall at around six-foot-two. His silhouette was leaner than Finn's, more athletic than bulky, evident of his position as a decorated police officer. His body was honed to perfection, sculpted by hours of grueling workouts and relentless runs, a symbol of strength and agility that made any potential criminal think twice.

He had the kind of broad shoulders that filled out his police uniform to perfection, highlighting his sculpted chest and the taper of his waist. Below the belt were long, muscular legs.

A constellation of tattoos decorated his arms, chest, and back—vibrant colors and intricate designs that painted a vivid picture against his fair skin. Unfortunately, the beautiful work had to be covered by long sleeves when in uniform.

When not in his uniform, James usually opted for jeans and casual T-shirts that hinted at his down-to-earth persona. He also had an undeniable penchant for athletic wear, often found in shades of gray and pale green, clothing that emphasized his active lifestyle.

His fiery ginger hair was usually kept short, a halo of copper against his pale skin. His eyes, though, were a startling green, sharp and piercing, giving away nothing and everything all at once.

Despite the intimidating facade, I knew James had a softer side. The way he would sit for hours under Finn's skilled hands, patiently getting a new tattoo, revealed a man with composure and tolerance. It was that dichotomy, a blend of hard and soft, that made James a person others gravitated to. I couldn't help but steal glances at him, drawn in by his mystique, warmed by his rare smiles.

The sight of him in the lounge area kicked my heartbeat into overdrive, and for a moment all I could do was drink in the sight of him, wondering what it'd feel like to run my hands over his tattooed skin.

The sight of Andrew Lansing was also something to behold. Nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall, the former Marine commanded attention effortlessly. The impressive build, the result of years of grueling physical conditioning, was enough to make your mouth water.

Andrew was more than just a well-chiseled body, though. His blonde hair was always kept short, framing his handsome face perfectly. The trimmed beard added a rugged charm to his striking features, and those bright blue eyes... they were like a slice of clear summer sky, intense and captivating, a sharp contrast against his bronzed, tattooed skin. But it was his smile that was the deadliest—a lethal combination of sweetness and seduction that could melt a woman's panties off in an instant.

His body was a canvas of ink, every tattoo telling a story of his life, his experiences. From clean-cut soldier to the tattooed bad boy, Andrew's transition was as fascinating as the man himself.

Andrew's wardrobe reflected his love for motorcycles. He had a penchant for leather jackets, the kind that looked like they had seen many adventures. His jeans were always worn-in and ragged, paired with plain T-shirts and heavy boots, a combination that highlighted his strong, muscular legs and long arms.

When he put on his full riding gear, he transformed into an intimidating figure, the wide shoulders and narrow waist making him look like a gladiator ready for battle. Yet despite his menacing appearance, there was a warmth to Andrew, a gentleness that shone through when you least expected it.

There he was, lounging with the others, an irresistible force of masculinity. My eyes drank in the sight of him, imagining what it would feel like to be held against that hard body, circled by those protective arms. I could almost feel the cool leather of his jacket under my fingertips, could almost smell the scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil, a uniquely Andrew fragrance that always set my senses on fire.

Just as my heart had started to settle into a steady rhythm again, the bell above the entrance door jingled, jerking me out of my fantasies. I turned to greet the visitor, but my voice died in my throat.

The door closed behind the towering figure of Klaus Henderson, a notorious name in Miami. He was the leader of the Crimson Devils, one of Miami’s most feared and dangerous biker gangs.

The daydreams, the fantasies, the fleeting touch of Kai's lips on mine, they all seemed like distant memories , buried under the weight of the looming stature of Klaus. I could only watch, breath held, as he stepped further into the tattoo studio, his boots hitting the floor with menacing hard thumps, tension mounting with each step.

He whipped off his sunglasses, a wicked grin on his lips.

“What the fuck does it take to get some service around here?”

Chapter 3

Julia

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