That was bullshit.
What I really wanted was her hands on me.
Not polite.
Not careful.
I wanted to feel her fingers press into my skin, steady and sure, needle buzzing as she leaned close enough for her breath to hit my neck. I wanted to watch her focus—bite her lip the way artists do when they’re lost in their work—while she marked me permanently.
Claimed me!
Fuck me!
The thought of her touching me like that—slow, intimate, deliberate—did things to me I hadn’t let myself feel in years. Ink wasn’t just ink. It was permission. It was proximity. It was her hovering over my body, straddling the line between professional and something far more dangerous.
I imagined the drag of latex gloves againstmy skin.
Her thighs brushing mine.
The heat of her body so close it would be impossible to pretend this was just business.
I didn’t just want her to tattoo me.
I wanted her to see me.
To know what she was doing to me.
To feel the tension coiled tight beneath my control and understand—without me ever saying it—that I would let her ruin me if she asked.
I wanted her art etched into my flesh so deeply that even after she walked away, I’d still feel her there.
And that’s when I realized the truth.
This wasn’t admiration.
This wasn’t curiosity.
This was possession taking root.
I hadn’t touched her yet.
But my body already knew her.
And once Rebecca Valentine put her hands on me—inked me, marked me—
there would be no pretending I was still the man I’d been before her.
Six months ago.
That’s when I put myself underher hands.
I didn’t book something small.
I didn’t want a symbol I could hide.
I wanted my back.
All of it.
