“Logan!” she shouts, and I tip her forward so she drips onto my tongue. Her hand delves into my hair, holding her steady as she grinds against my mouth. The way she continues muttering my name through her climax, so pathetic and needy, triggers something in me and I snap. My cock twitches, and before I can stop it, I’m coming. My hips jerk as I groan against her, swallowing her arousal as mine continues to pump out of me.Fuck!I spear my tongue inside, feeling her pulse—then I lap up every trace of her before releasing her thighs.
When we’re finished, we both sit motionless, except for our heaving chests.
“Now I’m done,” I say.
She slides off me, flopping on her back like a rag doll.
I sit up, head swimming as my vision dots in the corners. I crawl in front of her, spreading her legs, and kissing her cunt one last time. As soon as I’m finished, I drag my bottom lip from between her thighs, higher and higher, over her skin until I reach her navel. She looks down at me, her heart hammering against her chest. A slow smile creeps onto my face, and she mirrors it before dropping her head to the pillows.
“That was . . .” She pauses.
“Yeah.”
She’s made for me, the piece that makes everything shift into place. I make my way up her body and press my lips to hers before drawing back just enough to take in her beautiful flushed cheeks. She’s glowing.I did that.Her gaze settles on mine, soft and serene; we share a moment of silence that’s heavy with unspoken words.
It’s getting late.
After cleaning up, I fall on my side next to her and pull her body into mine. She hums when I brush her hair to the side and press a kiss to her bare shoulder. Her breaths turn steady within minutes, and I know she’s asleep. In my arms. Where she belongs.
I’m walking back to our booth with a cup of coffee and nervous energy. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself. We’ve just finished setting up tattoo stations and are going through power checks. With over a hundred artists in one space, and that many tattoo machines running, it’s crucial we don’t have any issues.
As soon as I exit the restroom, I’m confronted with my first glimpse of the hallway where attendees have lined up for entry.
I can’t see the end of it. “Holy shit,” I mutter.
It’s not like I’ve never been to a tattoo expo, but I’ve always attended as an apprentice. My dad mentored both Logan and Casper. Thor met my dad a few times, but he didn’t start working at Black Rabbit until after Logan took over. Anytime I’ve gone to one of these, I’ve acted as an assistant, making sure Dad, Logan, or Casper had all their supplies, and handled transactions for merchandise. We sell a lot of T-shirts with the Black Rabbit logo and prints of various flash art.
On occasion, I’ve conducted body piercings at events, and while it’s more nerve racking to do it while others watch, it’s still not as scary as being an Everhart and inking another person with an audience. I get enough criticism on my Instagram posts accusing me of either being too similar or too different.
Not today. Today, I’m doing my art the way I want, the way Dad taught me. I walk across the hallway to the event center doors; the security staff member’s gaze drops to the badge on a lanyard around my neck, and he nods for me to pass through.
The massive room is filled with various booths and tattoo stations for people to watch. The buzz of tattoo machines in every direction forms a steady hum, and it takes almost no time at all to settle into the background like white noise. The air is thick with anticipation and excitement, which feeds my already anxious nerves.
Our booth looks similar to the others; every vendor—or artist and/ or shop—is given a ten-by-ten booth. Because of Black Rabbit’s notoriety, we tend to have more foot traffic, so we opted for extra tables to extend our space. We pushed our four eight-foot tables end-to-end at the front of our double booth, and Thor is currently steaming the wrinkles from the black linens draped over them. I’ve already made sure our three tablets are fully charged and connected to the Wi-Fi, and that the software we use for our client waiver forms is functioning properly.
Besides the tattoo models and appointments we’ve arranged ahead of time, everyone is first come, first served, which means our table could get rushed as soon as the doors open. Logan, Casper, and Thor are all award-winning artists who are usually booked out a year in advance. These tattoo events are filled with top dogs tattooing all under one roof, giving attendees the opportunity to meet and be inked by their favorite artists—but they have to get their name on the list first.
We have three tattoo stations set up behind us; each has a padded table and a cart with all the supplies we might need during our sessions. It’ll be cramped, but I’ve seen other booths working in much tighter quarters than this.
Casper kneels on the floor, unpacking our ink boxes and loading up each cart.
All four of us have created flash specific for this Bozeman event; mine are sexy cowgirls, ranch hands, and western centaurs done in an American style. A few have features similar to what I used in my sexy mermen series back home. I’m glad I had the foresight to do that, because I’m going into the day feeling much more prepared. But my first tattoo of the day is the one I have spent weeks practicing, the astronaut and deep-sea diver. The stencils are ready to go at my station.
“Casper, what side of the booth do you want?” Everybody helps everybody during setup.
He glances up at the wall and shrugs. “I’ll take the left.”
I nod and get to work, pinning up the various sheets of flash to our black fabric backdrop.
“Thor, are you okay being in the center?”
“Yup.”
My height is making this task a little harder. Thor must see the way I’m struggling on my tiptoes because he chuckles from behind me. “Wanna trade, Junior? I’ve only got this corner left to steam. I can pin the ones on top for you.”
“Yes, please!” My heels meet the floor again, and we trade places, so I get to work steaming while he hangs up our flash. All the guys are well over six feet, so it’s no trouble at all for them.
Crouching on the floor with the steamer, I spot Logan across the room talking with one of the organizers wearing a headset. His outfit today is simple, black jeans and a solid flannel with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His clothes are casual, but he wears them with a confidence that makes him appear so muchmore collected and put together than the black jeans and plain white tee I’m sporting. He’ll probably switch to a short-sleeve shirt later too. The temperature always heats up once doors open and attendees flood the event space.
