The neon in the front window throws red across the floor between us. The little gold cross at her throat catches the light from my station lamp, and I am going to regret this.
“Fine.” I pull my stool back from the counter. Nod at my chair. “Get in the chair.”
She smiles and hops into my chair. She leans back, looking up at me, her arms on the rests.
I pull the stool over and sit down, trying to convince myself and my throbbing cock that she’s just like any other client.
She is not just any client. Fuck. What the hell am I thinking?
“What do you want?”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and then lets it go. “Something botanical. The wildflower Ford did on that girl’s wrist? Something like that.” She draws one knee up, shoe braced against the footrest. “Something that grows where it’s not supposed to.”
I look at her. I know she’s flirting with me, but does she really realize what she’s doing? “I can work with that.”
“Where do you think I should have it?” She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide and open.
“That’s your call. Not mine,” I say gruffly, taking a step back. This is about to get dangerous if she doesn’t let up. There’s only so much teasing I can take before my restraint snaps.
“But you have opinions.” She smiles. “So. Where would you put it?”
She doesn’t wait. She twists in the chair, reaches behind her, and pulls the back of her blouse up. Bare skin. The hollow dip of her lower back, the two dimples above her jeans. Unmarked. Skin my fingers ache to touch and my mouth longs to lick.
“Maybe here?”
I put my thumb on the dimple above her right hip. Her spine arches into my hand a fraction, but it’s enough to make me see stars behind my eyes.
“No.” The heat of her skin against my thumb, the shiver running under the surface. “You’re not a drunk sorority girl. I won’t give you a tramp stamp.” I pull my hand back. She turns around, letting the shirt drop. Her cheeks have gone pink.
She tips her chin down and looks at me from underneath it. “What about here?” She pulls the neckline of her blouse to the left—past the chain of the cross, past the hollow of her throat, until the skin below her collarbone is bare and the top curve of her breast starts where the fabric stops.
I can see the top of her breast, and I want my mouth on it.
I lean forward. Put two fingers on the flat below the bone. Her pulse flutters rapidly under my fingertips, fast and hard, and matching the racing of my heart. “Collarbone’s good placement. Hurts—thin skin over bone. But the line reads clean.” I drag my fingers along the ridge, and her chest rises under my hand.
“How much?” She hasn’t moved the fabric back. She is not asking about pain.
“You’d feel every line.” I pull my hand back. She lets the blouse go.
“What about here?” Her hand goes to her ribcage. She lifts the hem with the other hand—three inches of skin. The curve of her ribs. The give of flesh above her waist where the ribs end and the body goes tender.
I put my hand on her ribs. Silky soft skin.
I shouldn’t touch her, and I know it. But she’s showing me where she wants ink, and I’m helpless. My cock is straining painfully now, and I want to slide my hand up and cup her breast and strip her shirt off and put my mouth where my hand is and taste her virgin skin.
Sleeping with an employee is a bad idea. Sleeping with a virgin is a worse idea. Sleeping with the pastor’s daughter is a dangerous idea, and one I know won’t end well.
But I can’t fucking help it when she’s teasing me like this. She’s practically begging me to ravish her like I want to. I don’t know how much longer I can sit while she plays this game and not lose my mind.
I take my hand off her ribs.
“Ribs are worse. Bony. Moves when you breathe, which makes the line harder to lay.”
“You’ve done them, though.” Her fingers curl against the hem.
“I could do yours.”
“One more,” she says.
