“A health and safety acknowledgment and a disclaimer. Says you’re not drunk and you understand I could screw up and completely destroy your body, turning you into a hideous monster that makes all those hordes of women panting after you run screaming from your bedroom.” She smiled sweetly.
He raised an arrogant brow, but he didn’t dispute the part about the hordes of women. “Do you do that often? Disfigure men?”
“Twice on Tuesdays.”
“I wouldn’t sue you.”
“That’s good,” she said flippantly. “I don’t have anything worth suing for.”
She waited for him to fumble his way out at the reminder of her diminished fortunes. The Chandlers had wound up with everything, and the Kanes with nothing, after all.
Because the Chandlers are opportunistic, greedy, soulless bastards, came Paul’s voice in her head.
Nicholas looked down at the clipboard and quickly signed it without reading it.
“You should read the things you sign,” she snapped, genuinely annoyed with his carelessness. “I could have stuck a blank check on there.”
“Do you need money, Livvy?”
Not from him, thanks. “Only what you’ll pay for your tattoo. Spoiler alert: I’m fucking expensive.”
“I know.” He shrugged when she met his gaze. “You can get a lot of information on the Internet.”
He’d googled her?No, heart, don’t you dare go pitter-pat over that! Googling is hardly a sign of caring. Do you know who casually googles exes? Everyone with a stinkin’ Internet connection.
She yanked the clipboard from him and ripped off the last page of the carbon copy. “Your aftercare instructions are on the back of this. Might wanna keep them.” She gestured to the seat. She’d done the guest-artist deal in a ton of shops over the years, some better than others. This place was on the small side, but scrupulously hygienic, her biggest requirement.
He peeled off his jacket and draped it neatly over the plain plastic chair in the corner that was reserved for guests of customers before settling into the leather padded seat. He looked far too good in her chair. “Where do you want to do it?”
Her step faltered. To cover her reaction, she went to the sink and washed her hands. Theitwas a tattoo. He meant where did she want to tattoo him on his body, not where did she want to have wild animal sex. “Usually the customer decides that.”
Not in this case. Livvy knew exactly what she’d put on him, and where. She’d scribbled it on a cocktail napkin years ago, around three a.m., when he’d been sleeping soundly next to her, his naked back bared.
She’d like to say she’d thrown that napkin away, that she hadn’t visualized that design getting more elaborate and perfect, but that would be a complete lie.
It was art, she told herself defensively. She didn’t throw away any of her designs.
She dried her hands and turned to catch him undoing the right cuff of his shirt. Ohhh, she liked watching him do that too. Usually by the time he was done unfastening his tie and the cuffs, she was in a frenzy of lust. Not today, though. Today she’d be all adult and shit. In full command of herself.
Nicholas rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his muscular forearm, and rested it on the arm of the chair. She hooked her stool with her ankle and shoved it closer so she could sit next to him, contemplating his arm like it held all the secrets of the universe.
She could do it. She could totally touch him and control her pesky base desires. Livvy pressed her fingers against the skin of his wrist.
Her stomach clenched. Okay, maybe she couldn’t. “There?”
“Fine.”
She slid her fingers higher, up to the middle of his forearm, because those base desires demanded to be fed a nibble of pleasure. His late mother had been Greek, and his heritage was apparent in the olive tone in his skin. She swallowed. “Or here?”
He cleared his throat. His hand had become a fist, she noted. “Whatever you want.”
“What am I putting on you?”
He released his fist, and his arm jumped. “I told you. You decide.”
Livvy slid her finger down again, and that damn muscle responded. She kept her head bent. “You’re permanently altering your body,” she began, about to launch into the speech she’d had to give to intoxicated college students for the past year in Boston.
“I don’t care.”
