I stare at myself in the mirror, ignoring the pink flush overtaking the apples of my cheeks in favour of staring at my breastbone. Soon, the space on my skin will no longer be bare and unless I’m willing to go through the pain of lasering off the tattoo, or paying more hard-earned cash for a cover-up, I need to make sure the placement of my third fine line tattoo is pretty much perfect.
“Can we move it a little bit to the right?” I ask politely, wanting my fresh ink to be dead in the centre.
With nimble fingertips, Charlie gently peels the stencil from my skin, wipes away the ink left behind with a cool cloth and then repositions the paper back onto my skin an inch more to the right.
“There?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
The hum of Charlie’s tattoo gun starts up again as he peels away the paper for the second time and presses the tip to my skin.
“I’m going to start, okay? You let me know if you need a breather or some water.”
I inhale sharply as the first painful pricks of the ink dripping needle pierce my flesh. The studio room smells mostly of something antiseptic hanging in the air, with a tinge of the perfume I dabbed onto my wrists before I left my apartment. But now, with Hudson sitting beside me, my shirt still in his hands, I can smell the citrusy scent of his aftershave too.
Swallowing dryly, I breathe heavily, but slowly, through my nose, gritting my teeth as Charlie creates the first curve of my soon-to-be lotus flower.
His head is lowered over my bra cladded chest, eyes fixated on the point of his needle. It’s hard not to watch him. Not because I’m attracted to him, certainly not – for one he’s married, for two Charlie isn’t my type – but simply because it’s obvious how much he loves his job, how much he loves creating and bringing people’s ideas to life. He’s a true artist at work.
“Eyes on me… not on him, Giselle.”
Is he…
Is he kidding?
What a possessive arsehole.
And yet… I kind of like it, if the thrill running through my veins has anything to say about it.
Whatever power Hudson holds over my body, has me sliding my eyes to him without a second thought.
He sits in the chair, legs spread wide on either side, gaze focused on me.
I don’t know why I find his posture so masculine, something so intensely…man… but I do, and I can’t seem to get enough.
“You okay, Giselle?” Hudson asks.
It’s all I can do but nod, the pain not allowing me to speak.
My hands grip the edges of the chair, nails digging into the plastic so hard I’ll not be surprised if they snap in half. I’ve had a fair few tattoos inked on me before but this one feels like I’m being stabbed repeatedly.
Maybe it’s because of its placement, right on my bone?
Or maybe it’s because I’ve used up the entirety of my pain threshold getting the other two tattoos inked into my skin?
But either way, it’s fucking killing and I’m doing everything in my power not to scream out loud.
Warm fingertips peel my left hand away from the chair, intertwining our hands.
“Squeeze away,” Hudson says with a small smile.
“Do you need to stop?” Charlie asks, sensing my discomfort.
“No,” I grit out. I just want it over and done with. “Keep going.”
Using Hudson’s large hand as a stress ball, I pinch his flesh hard, watching as it turns white and mottled from lack of blood flow. But he doesn’t complain, in fact he doesn’t say a word about it even though I’m squeezing the blood supply out of him.
“Hudson, talk to me.” I inhale raggedly. “Tell me something to take my mind off the pain.”
