Interior sex parts? The pistils protrude? I hope he doesn’t understand because why in the hell am I making theliatris pycnostachyapornographic right now?
“Fuzzy, huh?” Joey asks, then starts the buzzing again.
The sharp pain hits, and he drags his gloved hand up to my bare shoulder to steady me. “Fuzzy,” I say weakly, taken by the sensation of his touch again. “Anyway, that’s not what… I’m getting the flower because I like it, but also because of Mrs. Butler. Not because of the pistils.” I bite down on my lip, and Joey drags the buzzing needle down my skin, sparking more pain. “She died a few years ago,” I blurt out. “She was kind of like the only person who really got me when I was growing up.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. Babbling about flower sex is bad enough. I don’t need to throw a sob story about being a gay nerd on top of it. Especially not to a guy who looks like he’s lived through a hell of a lot more than I have, things that were dangerous enough to scar him.
“Sorry to hear that,” Joey grunts softly. He rubs his hand down my arm. “The needle still feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, then force a smile. “Doing great!”
I look down and see the start of the tattoo. There are a few short dark lines and a couple tiny droplets of blood, too. Joey takes a damp cloth and gently wipes it across my skin. The softness of his touch is surprising, and a pleasant tingle hums along with the throbbing pain.
It looks amazing. It’s just a few elegant lines, and already, it’s beautiful.
“Oh,” I breathe, and my shoulders slump as a dizzy feeling spins through my head and warms me. “I think I feel the endorphins now.”
Joey squeezes my arm, then pulls his hand away. “Good,” he says. “You’re taking the tattoo great, by the way.”
“Oh, cool.”
He does something with ink and the machine, then turns back to me. I offer my arm for him to start, but he pauses. “So, flowers,” he says.
I swallow. “Flowers, yeah. Especially—”
Again, he starts back into the tattoo the second I’ve opened my mouth. My voice jumps, but I kept talking, and considering I’ve launched into a story about the Botanical Garden in Chicago, and not, say, an inventory of my pressed flower collection or something similarly horrifying, I let myself keep talking this time.
I tell Joey about the research program I want to earn a placement in, although I can’t imagine why in the hell he would care. And I tell him about the town where I grew up, and how I learned that I love lab work when I was in high school biology, and about Matty and the rest of my friends. I just run my mouth because with the steady rhythm of pleasure and pain from his touch and the occasional question prompting me to keep going, it seems like the only possible thing I can do.
And it’s so weird, but as Joey marks my body with the needle, and as theliatris pycnostachyaslowly comes to life, it happens. It’s cheesy and embarrassing to admit, but just like Matty promised, I feel like a part of me is coming to life, too.
It’s my first tattoo, and somehow, it’s perfect.
CHAPTERFIVE
JOEY
“Holy shit,”Milo says, his eyes wide as he stares at my work. “This looks amazing. I know I already said that a few times, but holy shit! I can’t wait until it’s summer and I have an excuse to take my shirt off at the beach and show this off.” He tilts his eyes up to me. “Not that I’m a showoff. I just mean I don’t normally like taking my shirt off, but now I’m going to be, um… Wow! This looks great.”
I bury a grin. It’s always nice when people appreciate the work I do, but it’s especially satisfying coming from Milo.
And damn if his babbling isn’t adorably hot. He’s been spilling his guts for an hour and a half, which strangely means I know him probably better than I know just about anyone in this city. And the more I see, the more I like. He’s sweet and gentle, qualities that I’m not used to seeing in a man, but that I quickly decide I appreciate.
I start to tell him he should show off all he wants. He looks fucking cute as hell, with his dark nipples and slim, firm arms and the way his pink underwear sticks out of his jeans.
Not to mention that ass…
He’s hot, is more like it. When I drew the tattoo machine across his skin, he melted in my hands. It was like I could feel him feeling me, every quiver and twitch, this feedback loop of energy I’ve never felt from a client before.
Instead of telling him all that, though, I suck in a deep breath and turn his arm slightly. “You need a break before I start this next part? It’s the last bit that I’ll do today.”
Milo shakes his head softly. I’m standing beside him, working on the last delicate outlines of the petals that spread to the back of his bicep. “I’m good,” he says. “Keep going.”
I lift his arm slightly, then turn back to work. Milo tenses, and when he doesn’t start talking, I prompt him, knowing his body will relax as soon as he starts unloading some of that energy.
And okay, because I want to hear his voice again. It’s warm and soft, but also steady, strong in its own way. Listening to that voice comforts me.
“What about those other flowers?” I ask. “The ones you had pictures of. You still might get more of those?”
