The small doorbeside Ashpine Books is easy to miss if you don't know it's there. A simple brass plaque reads "Blackwood Ink" with a raven silhouette, and an arrow pointing upward.
I've walked past it several times this past week but never gone in.
The narrow staircase leads up to what I know is both Grayson's studio and his apartment. When I reach the top and push open the door, the scent hits me immediately—antiseptic and ink and something distinctly Grayson. Ink and leather and spice.
My body responds instantly, a flutter low in my belly. Heat pricks at my skin, and I feel the beginning of slickness between my thighs. Just from his scent. Just from being in his space.
Get it together, Bea.
The space is small but immaculate. Dark walls covered in framed flash art and photos of completed tattoos. A sleek black tattoo chair sits in the center near a rolling tray of supplies. In the corner, there's a vintage leather couch and a small desk covered in sketches. Through an open doorway, I can glimpse what must be his living space—more books, a bed with dark sheets.
Everything smells like him. Something in me sighs with contentment just breathing it in.
"Be right there," Grayson's voice calls from a back room.
My stomach does a little flip, and another wave of slick makes my underwear damp.
When he emerges, he's wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and shows off the tattoos covering both arms. His dark hair is slightly mussed, reading glasses perched on his nose, and he's holding what looks like a design sketch.
He freezes when he sees me. His nostrils flare slightly, and I know—I know—he can smell my arousal. The way his scent darkens in response, going heavier with alpha interest, makes my knees weak.
"Bea." The way he says my name—like it's been punched out of him. "Hi."
"Hi." I suddenly feel very aware that I'm standing in his studio without a good reason. "I hope it's okay that I just... showed up?"
"It's more than okay." He sets the sketch down on the desk, removing his glasses and tucking them into his shirt collar. "I wasn't expecting anyone. Wednesdays are usually slow."
"Oh. I can leave if you're busy?—"
"No." He crosses the space between us in three long strides. "Don't leave. Please."
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. His scent is stronger this close—ink and leather and that spice that makes something in me hum with contentment.
"I heard about Seth," he says finally, and my face goes hot.
"Of course you did."
"He sent a very enthusiastic text to the group chat. With a selfie." Grayson's lips twitch. "He looked very pleased with himself."
"He should be. He's an excellent kisser." The words are out before I can stop them.
Grayson's eyes darken. "Is that so?"
"Very." I'm being bold. Probably too bold. But something about being alone with him in this intimate space makes me brave. "Even though he said he didn't know what he was doing."
"Seth tends to undersell himself." Grayson's voice has dropped lower. "But I'm glad he finally made his move."
"Are you?" I take a step closer. "Not jealous?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely jealous." His honesty catches me off guard. "But not of Seth. I'm happy for him. For both of you. I'm just..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Impatient."
My heart pounds. "You don't have to be."
His jaw tightens. "Bea?—"
"I came here for a reason," I say quickly, before I lose my nerve entirely. "A professional reason."
He raises an eyebrow. "Professional."
