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It strikes me that maybe this isn’t about him apologizing for the laptop or doing me a favor with the tattoo. This might as well be an elaborate way to torture me by prodding at my awkwardness. Maybe even some kind of sick revenge, if he heard me talking shit about him behind his back. What if he tries to coerce me into getting ink on my back, but instead of what I ask for, he leaves me with an offensive tattoo?

I swallow my panic.

“Yes. B-but I really like your designs.” I point to the wall where his art is displayed.

“A man of taste, I see.” He smiles, casually placing his hand on my back.

It’s burning hot, and I find myself stiffening in response to its touch. He leads me behind the counter, through a vaulted passage, and into the hallway behind it. We end up in a large room with two tattooing stations. The wallpaper features hands holding daggers, but all I can see are the tools laid out on an antique table. This somehow is the first time I worry about the process being painful.

“How much does it actually hurt?” I don’t want to sound like a coward in front of someone who’s been through the process endless times, but it’s a reasonable question.

“That depends on the person and the place we’re gonna work on,” Vex says, sipping his own drink as he gestures to the black tattooing chair waiting for its next victim. “It’s generally more painful in places with less fatty tissue.”

Did he just… scratch my back? Right next to my suspenders?

Oh, God. I glance down my body, desperately thinking of a place that has any fat on it. Maybe my ass and thighs, but I can’t have him touch me there. The risk of err… excitement is too great with Vex’s proximity. I guess, pain it is.

I don’t want to sound like a nervous wreck, so I have some juice to calm myself before speaking and approach the chair as if it were a wild animal. “Is there a place you’d suggest to a first timer? I’ll need to cover it at times.”

Vex hums and assesses me from head to toe. “Let’s start with the design. Did you make up your mind?”

I end up half-sitting half-standing with my ass against the leather chair. I spent most of the day trying to come up with what I want on my skin forever, and still, I don’t feel confident enough about my choice.

“I was thinking about a beetle.” His eyebrows rise so I elaborate. “Because of Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. A lot of people interpret the bug in it as a cockroach, but there’s no one right translation, so beetle is also valid, and I prefer the beetle. I don’t think the metaphor is about him being a pest, like a roach, but that he becomes something strange. Hence his alienation from his family.”

I said too much. He didn’t ask me for my life story. I should have just said beetle.

“Or a fountain pen,” I add helplessly. “I… really like fountain pens. There will be an exhibition on them in the Springton museum in December, and I’m very excited to attend it because they’re supposed to have Mark Twain’s pen.”

Vex stares at me for a bit too long, and I lower my gaze to his boots, wondering if he’d ignore the awkward exchange and go with the flow or excuse himself, so he doesn’t have to deal with my shit. But then he speaks, and the dark quality of his voice makes me look up, straight into his ice-cold blue eyes.

“Pretty and smart? Is Kafka your favorite author?”

My heart rattles at his silly teasing, but being invited to talk about my favorite subject puts me more at ease. “One of them. At some point, I considered learning German to read his works in their original form, but then I ended up choosing to dedicate that time to reading more diversely. And it was a good choice. I don’t want to be one of those people who hyperfixate on one author and analyze their three books to death. But The Metamorphosis is very dear to me. I also think a beetle will be much more suitable to your style than a pen.”

Vex’s thick brows rise, and I can practically see images passing through his eyes, as if he were a computer analyzing data.

A very handsome computer.

Maybe I should show myself out?

“Where do you want it?” Vex asks, and I don’t know if I’m imagining things, or if he’s moved two inches closer.

I put away my half-finished glass of juice along with the cardigan and stand straighter. “Maybe… here?” I lift my shirt and point to my side, where ribs poke at pale skin. The spot should be easy enough to cover with clothes, though I still worry what would happen if my parents found out. They are very strict and believe that, as a future lawyer, I should not experiment with my image, but you’re only young once, and it’s not like my future clients will know what I look like under my suit.

As Vex studies me with a slight frown, I’m suddenly embarrassed over the things I’ve said about him in the past, because the truth is, and has always been, that I want him to touch me, and acknowledge me, and that I do want a cool tattoo. This is exactly why I chose not to tell anyone what I’m doing tonight, not even Matt, because they would have mocked me if they knew.

“Oh, that would be painful, and I don’t want you running away halfway through our inking session,” Vex says with a half-smile and runs his finger across my chest, below the collarbone. “How about here?”

Is it just me or is it hard to breathe in here? It’s probably just me.

I glance down at his tattooed hands, to the finger pressed to my chest, and I clear my throat. “That would be a nice area too. Easy to cover.” I try not to overthink the fact that I’d need to remove my shirt, and that is not something I considered before coming over. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t wear a top? To put me at ease by showing his own skin? Though with all the tatts covering his body, it doesn’t seem like he’s half-naked.

I, on the other hand, feel like a Sphynx cat—slim, awkward, and very, very bare.

“Is that a concern? Lots of people have tattoos,” Vex says and pops my top button open before progressing to the next one so fast I lose my tongue. He acts with such confidence I don’t dare question why he’s undressing me. Because maybe it’s normal. Maybe people who come here to get tattooed are cool and casual about showing their skin. And if he is to ink my chest, I have to be shirtless anyway.

Still, his casual touch overwhelms me with desire. I want him to keep going all the way to my zipper, which is a terrible way to think. He’s a professional, doing his job, and here I am, projecting my own lust on him.