I trace the familiar lines of the kitten I drew while crying so hard I could barely see the paper. Grandma Rose had been gone for three months, and I’d finally accepted she wasn’t coming back. That no one was ever coming back, and I was alone again.
And now this gorgeous blue-eyed woman wants my art inked on her body forever.
It takes everything I have to keep the lines clean.
When I turn back, she’s watching me. She’s tapping her fingers nervously, but has such a happy smile on her lips that it takes my breath away.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods. Then she reaches up and tugs her collar aside, exposing the smooth skin of her collarbone. The vulnerability of it—the trust—hits me like a punch.
I sit down on my stool, closer than I need to be. I wet a clean rag with some sanitizer, and wipe down the area she wants the tattoo. Her skin is creamy and soft, and I have to forcibly pushaway all the fantasies that try to flood my mind when my fingers graze the top of her breast.
“This’ll feel cold.” I press the stencil to her skin.
She shivers, and I feel it everywhere.
I pull back the paper, taking in my art on her skin. My heart pressed above hers. “Take a look.”
She twists toward the mirror, and a radiant smile lights up her face.
“I love it,” she breathes. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
“I need to prep the needles.” I turn away, busying myself with equipment I already prepped an hour ago. “Any questions about the process?”
“I’ve never done this before.” Her voice wavers. “Is this going to hurt a lot?”
“You’ve chosen a sensitive area.” I snap on fresh gloves, not looking at her because if I do, I’ll lose what’s left of my composure. “If you need me to stop, say the word and I’ll stop.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m ready.”
I turn back with the machine in my hand. She’s pulled her collar aside again, exposing the stencil.
I’m about to put my art on this woman’s skin forever. And she has no idea who I am.
CHAPTER 2
DAISY
Tattooed girls are dirty. No good man wants a woman who marks herself up like that.
My father’s voice echoes through my head, but for once, I don’t let it stop me. He may have died five years ago, but my father’s opinions have never left me, no matter how hard I’ve tried to escape his mean judgments.
The leather chair is cool as I lean back, the air sharp with antiseptic and something darker—the ink, I suppose. Classic rock drifts from speakers I can’t see, and the walls are covered in art that should terrify me. Skulls. Daggers. Roses dripping with thorns. Maybe this was a mistake.
For twenty-six years, I’ve been the good girl who never caused trouble. Who did everything I was told to do.
But today, that changes.
“Hold still.” Knight’s voice is gruff. He doesn’t look at my face as he preps my skin with something cold and wet.
His tattooed hands move with a grace I didn’t expect, but that shouldn’t surprise me. This isn’t the kind of art that’s in museums, but it’s still art. I find myself staring at the way his fingers dwarf the antiseptic wipe, at the designs crawling up his forearms. A skull here. Something that might be flames there.
Heat floods my cheeks. I’m suddenly intensely aware of how close he is, of the warmth radiating from his body, the dark stubble on his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes as he works.
Stop it, I tell myself.He’s just doing his job. A man like him would never look twice at someone like me. Intense, brooding, achingly handsome men like Knight don’t notice women like me. Women who wear cardigans in summer and read picture books to kids for a living. Women who don’t have any experience with men.
“My grandmother loved cats, but my dad never let me have one.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “She had four when she died. I couldn’t keep them—my apartment doesn’t allow pets.”
