Page 28 of Tempt Me

Crap. I’m supposed to say thank you, not brag about my work. “Thank you.”

She twists her head around and smiles. “No ego in you, is there?”

“I am proud of my work.”

“You should be.” She clasps her hands together as some of her bravado disappears from her expression. We’re down to the real thing. She’s not a daredevil and never has been.

“Are all of these your drawings?”

“Yes.” I shove my hands into my pockets. Now, I’m the one under the spotlight. No wonder I’ve never put in for an art exhibit. Having everyone stare at my work makes me nauseous.

She walks to each one and stares at them intently. No. It’s her. I want her to appreciate them. I’m not some guy pushing a pen in a bank. Or clicking a mouse behind a massive desk. So, I’m already at a disadvantage. Good girls want to bang the tattoo artist in their fantasies, not marry them.

“You’re very good. I’m glad I came here.” She wipes her hands on her shorts. “How do we do this?”

“How do we do what?” The world around me goes blank except for her, wearing a shirt that leaves little to the imagination even though mine is running overtime and legs that I want wrapped around me.

As she stares at me expectantly, I blink. The tattoo. Right. She’s not talking about what sex position you want her in. I clear my throat and straighten my back. “First, we need to establish the design and then where you want it drawn.”

“I told you where I wanted it. Don’t let my brother’s overprotective attitude scare you off. That’s where I want it.” Her eyes flash with heat, and the tension in the room ramps up another notch. I’m already on edge and about to snap.

Then the woman expects me to sit next to her exposed skin, inches from her sex, and not lose my mind? I yank my handout of my pockets and inhale, trying to get my head on straight. I’ve never had this issue before. Every other tattoo I’ve drawn was impersonal and business–this is the farthest thing from that.

“Right.” I rotate my neck and shoulders, trying to ease the tension in my body. “What do you want?”

She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Wildflowers.”

My mind drifts to the day we all met for a picnic at Schrader’s Garden after Bella’s graduation. There were wildflowers everywhere. But none of them were as beautiful as she was.

That was the day I realized puppy love was for kids, and I was in over my head. The sun shone down on her as she, Ruby, and Emily ran through the flowers, laughing and singing. They had the time of their lives, and I went straight to hell. Because that was a boundary I couldn’t violate. I still can’t.

“Okay. What size and style?” I’ve done 100s of wildflowers. At least, that won’t be an issue. “Realistic ones? Or cartoon?”

“Realistic.” After she describes the specifics of what she’s looking for, she arches an eyebrow. “Is that doable?”

“Yes.” Sweat pops out on my forehead. I’ve completed small, minimalist tattoos before, but this is Bella. It must be perfect. “I can do that.”

“Good.” She unbuttons her shorts, and the loud sound of the zipper sends my blood buzzing.

“How far down?” She looks at me under her lashes with cheeks that are tinged pink.

Son of a bitch. Anger surges through me. Life is unfair, and then she has to come in here and fuck with my head. My jaw tightens as I flip the switch to business mode.

“All the way unzipped, shorts and panties dragged down so they’re out of the way. Flip the side over that you want the tattoo on, lay back on the chair, and I’ll get my supplies.” I spin on my heel and ignore her as I prepare my gear.

My gun is state-of-the-art, lightweight, and fits my hand perfectly. But first, my favorite sketching pen.

As the seconds pass, the tension leaves my shoulders. This is my career. This is my passion. And letting my feelings get involved is a mistake.

The sound of her shifting her clothing is combined with the noises of her climbing onto the tattoo chair. I’ve heard the same sounds hundreds of times. She’s just another client giving me the opportunity to use their body as a canvas. I need to respect that privilege.

“Rissa is nice.”

“Yes, she is. She’s a great boss.” I pop my neck and rotate my shoulders, loosening up before hunching over to work on her tattoo.

“I didn’t know she was married.”

“Yeah.” I spin to face her but never look above her waist or a centimeter below where the tattoo will be inked. “She’s been married for years. She met her husband while giving him a tattoo.”

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