She shakes her head. “No. It’s perfect.”
“Color or black and white?”
Her nose wrinkles as she debates. “Color? I don’t know. What do you think?”
“It’s your body, but for what it’s worth, you’ve always been full shining color to me.”
She smiles. “Okay. Color it is.”
I print the image onto a stencil and set about preparing my station. I could do this setup in my sleep, but I find myself taking extra time now, checking the needle and the ink, laying out all my supplies, wrapping my machine in grip tape. I want her to feel at ease, but I also want to be sure that I take good care of her.
I think too many people have been a little too careless with Carson.
I work methodically through the steps, explaining everything as I go. And before I know it, I’m next to her, tattoo machine in hand, needle hovering over her skin.
“Ready?” I ask.
She bites her lip, the first indication that she’s nervous. But before I can try to put her at ease, my sweet girl sucks in a deep breath. She closes her eyes and blows it out slowly. I watch her take control of the moment, of herself. Then she opens her eyes, her pupils wide, and nods.
“Ready,” she says, and fuck, if I weren’t gloved up and sterile, I’d thread my fingers into the curls at the nape of her neck and pull her in for the kind of kiss that leads to other things.
But she wants a tattoo.
And I’m going to give it to her.
“Let me know if you want to stop. We can take a break at any point. There’s no rush, okay? We’re literally the only ones here.”
“Okay,” she says, her eyes on me.
“Okay.” I tap my foot on the floor pedal, making the machine buzz to life, and begin the first line.
When the needle bites into her skin, she doesn’t jump or hiss. She doesn’t even wince. If anything, the pain just makes her more stoic. More determined.
She’s more in control than I am, that’s for sure. I’m fighting for my life over here, because the feeling of tattooing her—permanently marking her withmyart—is entirely too erotic. Every stroke of the needle feels like a stroke of my tongue on her skin, a claim. The needle vibrates, and my brain hearsmine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine.
“Talk to me,” I say, trying to interrupt my filthy thought spirals. “If you can.”
She laughs. “I’m fine. This isn’t that bad. Just sort of…uncomfortable? Irritating?”
“That sounds about right,” I tell her.
“Who was the first person you ever tattooed?” she asks. “Other than yourself, I mean.”
“Eamon, the guy who taught me how to do this. I put a spade on his arm.”
“Were you nervous?”
“Not really. Tattooing relaxes me. Same as getting tattooed.”
“You findthisrelaxing?” She glances down at the needle marking her skin, then quickly looks away.
“I find the whole thing meditative. The rhythm, the pain, the art of it. It requires you to be incredibly present in your body and the moment. You have to leave all your anxieties at the door and focus on what’s happening in front of you. That’s relaxing. Certainly more so than my other job.”
“Do you evenlikeworking in finance?”
“I was good at it,” I tell her, then notice I’ve used the past tense.
“You understand that that’s not the same thing, right?” she asks, then winces. I pause the machine, thinking she needs a break, but she shakes her head. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer?—”
