Page 79 of Cruel Heir

I nod, walking over to the smaller of the two couches as she brings the duffel over, unzipping it and pulling out a leather-backed binder. “Here.” She hands it to me. “There’s some flash sheets in here that I’ve done for some shop events. And I’ll pull up my Instagram so you can see the tattoos I’ve done. I’ve got fresh and healed photos, so you can see how well the color holds, and that my lines don’t blow out–”

With every word, I can hear the tension drain out of her voice a little bit more. It’s clear that she’s in her element. There’s a confidence in her voice that wasn’t there before, as I start to flick through her portfolio.

“Your art is lovely.” I scan through the flash–there’s a sheet of traditional style tattoos, one of a variety of fine-line flowers, and then a sheet of more Gothic themed drawings. I pause on that one, and she glances over.

“There was a Halloween night at the shop last year,” she explains. “$150 for a flash piece on an arm or leg. I volunteered to do some with a Victorian gothic theme.”

“They’re wonderful.” I’m not exaggerating, either–even the simple line drawings have a crisp look and fine details that make me linger over the page, looking over each of them before I turn it. “Let me see some of your tattoo work, though.”

Emma hands me her phone without complaint, opened to her social media. A quick scan tells me all I need to know–she’s extremely talented, and her work holds up. She has healed, six month, and year-long photos of several of her tattoos, and I can see that the lines are still firm and the colors are vibrant. She manages to capture all the details of her drawings in the tattoos themselves, too, and I find myself scrolling further and further down, taking in one after another.

“Like what you see?” There’s a touch of defensiveness to her voice, as if she’s expecting me to say otherwise.

“Absolutely.” I hand her back her phone. “You do gorgeous work. I’m glad Axton sent you.”

“So you’re fine with me being the one to handle your session?” She still sounds unconvinced, and I wonder if it’s something to do with her boss, or if there’s another reason.

“Do you tattoo high-level clients often? You must, with skills like these. Private appointments, that sort of thing?”

I expect her to take it as a compliment, regardless of the answer. But instead, Emma presses her lips together, as if I’ve struck a nerve.

“No,” she says shortly. “I handle my own clients in the shop. And walkins, when there’s time. Rico takes the private inquiries.”

There it is. It’s clear she doesn’t intend to say anything further about it–that she doesn’t want to badmouth her boss, which is admirable. Good business, that’s for certain, especially when he’s still meant to do my future appointments. But I can also hear the hint of resentment in her tone. She’s clearly not thrilled about the arrangement.

“Keeps the good ones for himself, hm?” I add a bit of levity to my tone, but Emma just shrugs, standing up from the couch. She’s wearing light-wash jeans and a black ribbed tank top with a black-and-blue loose checked button-down over it, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. I can see tattoos on both arms–a finely detailed snake winding around one arm, interspersed with crystals in the spaces between the coils, and a veritable garden of flowers on the other. Her clothes look well-worn and soft, as if she goes back to the same outfits time and again–or maybe just doesn’t have the funds to spare to go shopping for new ones.

“He’s the boss. He makes the rules.” She undoes the outer shirt, shrugging it off just as I look up from the portfolio that I’d started to peruse again, and I’m momentarily taken aback.

Emma is beautiful, but not in the way I’m used to. I date models and actresses more often than not, women with mulit-thousand-dollar wardrobes and expensive weekly beauty regimens, hair extensions and boob jobs and lips made fuller and softer by the miracles of modern science. Emma is–entirely different.

She’s naturally beautiful, in a way that stands out in a city where artifice is largely worshipped. Her hair is thick and dark, with a natural texture to it, pulled up in a high ponytail that makes me itch to tug the band holding it loose and see how it would fall around her face. Her eyes are wide and dark in her deeply tanned face, which is bare of any makeup. I can make out a smattering of freckles across her nose, her lips lightly chapped from the dry heat, but still soft-looking and full and pink. I can imagine the soft indent in her bottom lip, if I pressed my finger against it. And her body–

She’s a fucking knockout. I feel my cock twitch the moment she shrugs off the shirt, revealing lean shoulders and taut arms in the black tank top, which rides up just enough to show off a strip of tanned skin between the edge of it and the waist of her jeans. Her arm tattoos wind around her upper arms and across her shoulders, the tail of the snake on one side angling beneath her collarbone. I can see the hint of a geometric tattoo in her cleavage, and I feel my cock twitch with interest again, swelling against my thigh as I imagine stripping away the tank top and discovering the rest of the tattoo between her breasts.

Her ears and nose are pierced, and I catch my gaze wandering back to her breasts, wondering if her nipples are, too. Another throb, the ache in my groin spreading, and I grit my teeth. A few more minutes of this, and I’m going to have a painful hard-on for my tattoo session. But it feels impossible to distract myself. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever dated.

Or ever will date.The logical side of my brain clicks on just in time as Emma is setting up her equipment at the bar counter, reminding mewhythat is. She might be beautiful, attractive in a number of ways even beyond the physical, but she’s entirely unsuited to me and my lifestyle. She’s not the kind of girl I could ever actually consider a relationship with–if I were even the relationship type, which historically I haven’t been.

A woman like Emma might as well be from a different planet, she and I are so unalike.

Besides,I remind myself as Emma motions me over and I stand up,she’s here for business. Try to be professional.

My cock has softened enough that I can at least walk across the room without wondering if I’ll embarrass myself if Emma looks below my belt, but it’s an effort to keep my mind clear of the sort of thoughts that might change that. Emma is standing next to one of the bar stools, and she gives me a pleasant smile as I approach.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she says as I sit down. “I brought the file with the stencils with me, but Rico didn’t fill me in much beyond that. Where are you getting this done?”

“My back.” I sit on the stool facing the counter, reaching for the top buttons of my shirt. “A full back piece, if you look at the drawings.”

“And you know that will take multiple sessions, right?” Emma looks at me curiously. “Rico will be doing the others. You’re comfortable with having two separate artists working on you?”

“Your style is very similar to his.” I shrug off my shirt, and I don’t miss the way Emma pauses ever-so-briefly, her gaze flicking to my bare chest as if she can’t quite help herself. “I don’t see any issue with both of you working on it.”

“Alright, then.” Emma reaches for the stencils, looking them over. “This is a lovely design. Did you come up with it together?”

“I had the idea. He just brought it together.” I pause, glancing over at her. “If you want to add anything to it–”

Emma’s eyes narrow as she looks at the design. “Maybe some additional flowers, just up here–” Her fingers brush over the edge of my shoulder, light against my skin, and my traitorous cock twitches against my thigh once more.

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