Page 49 of Playboy’s Purgatory

My lower lip comes out in a pout as I whine softly. “No fun.”

I’ve debated this very question with myself many times. My leg is very close to parts of me that his hands shouldn’t be anywhere near, for obvious reasons. However, my arm is a lot closer to my face which means all of him will be front and center.

This is exactly why I’ve been flip flopping about which one to choose. Ultimately, I left it up to this moment and I’m completely flummoxed for about three seconds.

“Leg,” slips past my lips as I go with my gut.

“Okay.” He accepts my answer and doesn’t try to push me in another direction.

That simple act eases a little bit of my worry. Damn it; he just earned a sliver of my trust.

He’s sneaky.

Playboy looks away quickly when he notices the way my nose scrunches slightly. Yeah, he should look away.

I stand up and reach for the button of my jeans and he screeches, “What are you doing?”

Startled, I freeze for a second before hissing, “Use your inside voice, Playboy.” The grimace on his face speaks volumes, even though we’re alone right now. “I have bikini bottoms on under my jeans,” I explain. “I’m not like wearing lace or a thong or something,” I sound just as exasperated as my eye roll makes me look.

“Not gonna lie,” he says and rolls back a little on his stool, “I find that a little disappointing.”

“Of course you do,” I deadpan.

“Lace and thongs? If that’s the norm for you, Cupcake,” his voice is pure fucking sin, “I wouldn’t complain at all.”

“I’m a mother,” I scoff.

“A sexy one,” he lobs right back at me with no hesitation.

I can only shake my head as I peel my jeans off and hand my body over to this man. For so long all I knew about him was that he hated me because of Lola’s unique way of seeing the world. Now I’m about to let him mark my skin permanently with his art.

The world is funny sometimes. Honestly, I should be angrier or more resentful. But I’m finding it difficult to hold onto those emotions.

Maybe it’s because I know how Lola is. Maybe it’s because, so far, he’s been steady in proving to me he’s different from the man he showed himself to be before.

Lola taught me that people don’t change. I’ve held onto that for so long because it’s what was proven to be true.

Perhaps it’s time for me to allow a little room to give the chance for a person to change.

It’s not easy to give even that much grace.

Playboy walks me through every step of preparing my skin and placing the stencil. He has me look at it in the mirror and while I know I’m only looking at the stencil, which is barely a shadow of what it will be, I can almost see the finished tattoo on my body. A testament of beauty, delicate at times but supported with strength, and the balance between what was and what will be.

My mouth goes dry as I look at it in the mirror. Playboy is watching me closely. At first, I think he’s examining the placement, but when I meet his eyes in the full-length mirror, he’s studying my face.

The only thing I can do is ignore it completely. Especially because of how tender the look is.

I might be willing to let him see me half naked and tattoo me, but tenderness? Nope, that’s too far.

After clearing my throat, I awkwardly climb onto the tattoo chair, following his directions for how he wants me positioned. It feels like I’m on display for him a little bit, but I push that feeling away as I glance up at the drawing on the wall.

He rolls his tray closer and starts to sanitize everything. “Normally, I do a lot of this stuff beforehand and am completely set up with everything ready to go, but I wanted to walk you through the complete process. You need to be comfortable with what is happening, not only with how we protect our clients and put their health and safety first, but with me as your artist.”

My heart fucking flutters. I’m not sure that I like it at all.

When I give a little nod, he walks me through every step of him setting up his tray. He even talks to me about his tattoo gun and how the machine works.

“You know a lot about how it works,” I marvel.