Chapter 5
Keisha tasted metal, sharp and bitter, before the needle touched her skin.She shifted in Sergei’s backroom chair, vinyl clinging to her thighs.Antiseptic and ink stung the air, each breath a choice.
She shouldn’t be here like this.Too much was at stake, but watching Sergei tattoo another client had made her wonder what it would feel like to be in his chair.Her sleeve rolled up, scars bared—jagged lines from seizures, falls against unforgiving edges.
Sergei loomed, shoulders blocking the bright light overhead.He mixed ink, movements sure, machine parts gleaming on the table.“Ready?”His voice cut through the air conditioner’s hum.
She nodded, throat dry.
He leaned close, hip against her knee, gloved fingers tracing her deepest scar.“I’ll start here.”His touch lingered, warm through latex.“You have good skin for ink.”
“How do you know?”Her voice slipped, sharp.
His mouth quirked.“Educated guess.”
Keisha fixed on the bare wall—peeling paint, sketches, a photo tucked in the mirror’s corner, too small to see.Sergei wiped her arm, alcohol cold.“Breathe normally.”
She exhaled, slow.The needle buzzed, pain biting her scar.His hand steadied her, breath grazing her neck.Heat flared low in her belly, unwelcome.Her cunt clenched, aching, as his fingers shifted, splaying across her arm.A response she hadn’t expect at all.
“Okay?”he asked, eyes on the ink.
“Fine,” she gritted, nails biting her palm.
The needle carved short strokes, pain a steady burn.Sergei’s focus locked, jaw set, a faint scar under stubble.Her tremor spiked, metal taste flooding.Not now.Tiana’s trust anddefiance—held her steady.
“Stop tensing,” Sergei said, thumb on her wrist, pulse racing.
“I’m not.”A lie.
His free hand adjusted her skin, palm warm.“Tattoos are usually personal but not always,” he wiped away unneeded ink, touch soft.“Is this one?”
Her throat closed.Her foster sister’s face, lost to the system, flashed before her eyes.“Something like that.”
He didn’t push, just worked.The needle faltered as her hand drifted to his thigh, nails digging.His muscle tensed, breath sharp.He resumed, strokes slower, rougher.
“Keep touching me like that,” he growled, voice low, “and I’ll fuck this up.”
She didn’t move her hand.Her cunt throbbed, soaked.His jaw clenched, eyes meeting hers, loaded.
He set the machine down, silence heavy, hot.“You’re shaking.”
“Fatigue.”Another lie.
His gloved hand slid to her elbow, holding her.Her nipple tightened, begging through her shirt.
“I should stop,” he murmured, unmoving.
“Don’t,” she whispered, then louder, “Please finish it.”
His gaze burned.He picked up the machine, resuming with rigid control.The final strokes curved around her scar, a brand of trust.He cleaned her skin, gloveless, fingers dragging ointment, gentle, intimate.
“I have epilepsy,” she blurted, trust breaking free.
Sergei stilled, hands on the machine.He faced her, no pity, just steady gray eyes.“How long?”
“I was diagnosed at sixteen.”She gripped the chair, tremor spreading.“Stress triggers it.”
