Page 3 of Canvas’ Muse

"Mine's from college," I offer. "Nursing school rebellion. My mom almost had a heart attack."

"But you kept it."

"But I kept it." I smile at the memory. "She got over it eventually. Even said it looked good, which might be the highest compliment I've ever received from her."

Canvas grins and gets back to work. The dragon is taking shape now, scales catching the light, wings spreading across my thigh. It's more beautiful than I imagined, and I imagined it would be pretty damn beautiful.

"You do a lot of dragons?" I ask.

"Fair amount. They're popular right now, but I don't mind, they're fun to design. Everyone wants something slightly different." He adds shading to a wing, the detail so fine it must take incredible patience. "This one's good though. The positioning, the flow. It suits you."

"How can you tell?"

"Some tattoos just fit people. Don't know how to explain it better than that." He sits back, examining the full piece. "Like they were always supposed to be there."

Something warm blooms in my chest at that, something I absolutely should not be feeling right now. This is professional. He probably says that to everyone.

Except the way he's looking at the tattoo, at my thigh, at his work, doesn't feel like something he says to everyone.

"We're making good progress," Canvas says, checking his phone. "Probably another hour and we'll be done with today's session. You doing okay?"

"I'm good." And I am. The pain is there, but it's background noise now. I'm more focused on the art taking shape on my skin, and on the man creating it. "This might be my favorite tattoo yet."

"Yeah?" He sounds pleased. "Wait ‘til you see it finished."

We settle back into comfortable silence, Canvas working with complete focus while I watch the dragon grow more detailed with every pass. I could get used to this. To him.

Which is a dangerous thought, because Canvas is MC. Iron Phoenix cut, leather jacket, the whole package. I saw it hanging by the door when I walked in. And I've made it a point not to get involved with dangerous men, no matter how talented their hands are or how well they know their Sanderson.

But god, he makes it tempting.

Chapter 2 - Canvas

I'm fucked.

Completely, professionally, absolutely fucked.

I've tattooed hundreds of thighs in my career. Maybe thousands if I count the smaller pieces. I've worked on bodies of every shape and size, kept it professional every single time, never once let my focus slip. It's art. It's work. It's not personal.

Except right now, with Eden Cross half-naked in my chair, talking about Sanderson like she's reading my goddamn diary, my cock is so hard I'm grateful for the way my black jeans hide everything.

This has never happened before. Not once. Not even a flicker.

I adjust my position on the stool, trying to find an angle that doesn't make me feel like a complete piece of shit. She trusted me. She's been sitting here for over two hours, vulnerable and comfortable, and I'm supposed to be a professional. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to run my hand higher up her thigh just to see what sound she'd make.

The dragon is almost finished: just the final details on the tail, some highlighting on the scales, cleaning up the edges. It's some of my best work. The way it curves around her thigh, the muscle definition underneath affecting how the design sits, it's perfect. She's perfect.

And she's wearing black lace panties that are absolutely destroying my concentration.

I noticed them the second she took off her jeans, tried not to notice them, failed completely. They're not trashy or trying too hard, just pretty, feminine, the kind of thing a woman wears when she wants to feel good about herself. And they're right there, inches from where I'm working, a constant reminder that Eden Cross has curves in all the right places and I'm running out of professional excuses to keep touching her.

"How much longer?" she asks, and her voice is slightly breathless from the pain.

I clear my throat. "Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Just finishing the detail work."

"Take your time." She shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable, and the movement makes those panties shift too. I look away. Focus on the scales. "I'm not in a rush."

We've been talking for two and a half hours. About books, about art, about life in Millhaven. She's funny, genuinely funny, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you laugh before you can stop yourself. She's smart. Confident. Flirty in a way that feels natural, like she can't help it.