But when she takes the razor and shaves the area where the tattoo will go?
I suck in a breath as my hands grip the armrests.
“You good?” she asks, not looking up.
“Peachy,” I lie.
She’s dragging the razor with delicate precision, her free hand resting just above my waistband for balance. I watch the curve of her lips and the way her lashes fan out when she’s focused, as she leans in closer to wipe me down with antiseptic.
I literally stop breathing.
Fuck Maverick, you’re thirty-four, get it together.
“You’re squirmy for a quarterback,” she teases, grabbing a paper towel, wiping at my chest.
I laugh under my breath. “It’s not the needle I’m worried about, dollface.”
She pulls back, positioning herself to straddle my lap. Her thighs cage me in as her gloved hands smooth across my chest.
There’s no way in fuck she’s straddling me right now; she could’ve sat in her chair like a normal person, but she chose to kill me instead. Great.
“This okay?” she asks sweetly, tilting her head.
I nod, but my voice is nowhere to be found.
It’s gone, along with my dignity.
“Good,” she says, grabbing her tattoo gun. “Now stay still.”
Stay still? Is she fucking serious asking me that?
Her hips shift as she leans in to adjust the stencil, the denim of her jeans brushing against my thigh for just a second too long. Heat shoots straight through me, and my fingers curl tighter around the armrests.
Her machine hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already fucking losing it. My cock thickens, pressing hard against the inside of my shorts. I take a shaky breath, trying desperately to stay cool, not making a sound, and not letting her see how close I am to unraveling just from the touch of her body against mine.
Her hand slides across my ribs, steadying herself as she leans in to double-check the linework, her fingertips grazing my skin. The touch of her fingertips is light, almost nothing, and it destroys me. I suck in a breath through my teeth, jaw clenched tight as her hair falls forward, a dark curtain that nearly brushes my chest.
Oh, I’m fucked.
The sting of ink bites into my skin, again, but it barely registers compared to the weight of her body settled over mine. She’s literally sitting on me, calm as can be, her hand steady while mine are locked tight around the armrests like I’m holding on for dear life.
Every shift of her hips presses her closer, and all I can think about is how she’s tattooing me like this is routine, while I’m falling apart inside, fighting the urge to groan every time her thighs squeeze against mine.
She shifts forward slightly to reach the ink cup, and her thighs press tighter around my hips. My hands flex against the sides of the chair, trying like hell to stay still, but my body has other plans.
A subtle rock of her hips as she straddles me more comfortably, but it lights my nerves on fire. Every tiny adjustment presses her down harder, and the pressure between us is brutal.
My cock is already straining against my shorts, and the friction of her center grinding over me makes my pulse spike so hard I swear she can hear it. Heat radiates throughthe thin layers of fabric, her body brushing mine again and again in these small, unthinking movements that feel anything but innocent.
She has to know I’m hard, or she’s playing dumb.
The drag of her center over the hard line of my cock is slow, unintentional, and it nearly rips a groan out of me. Fabric to fabric, heat to heat, every slight shift grinds against the ache straining in my shorts. My grip on the armrests turns brutal, veins standing out in my forearms, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from begging.
Focus.
You’re a grown-ass man. You can survive your sexy fake wife grinding on you.
I try breathing through it.
