Page 10 of Inked Desires
I step even closer until I’m right in front of him. My whole body tightens. His scent tingles my senses. No, he’s not William. My husband always wears the same perfume. Andrew smells like earth after a summer rain, warmed by the sun. He smells like redemption.
“Show me,” I order.
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply in the feeling he gives me, then open them again. The vibration in my body intensifies. He affects me the same way the machine does when it’s in my hands.
I focus on his skin, amateur work. It won’t be easy to fix.
“Do you have an idea in mind?”
He goes back to his original posture, his cheeks gaining color again. He looks at me and his lower lip twitches slightly, making me want to bite it.
“Roses,” he whispers.
My closeness seems to make him nervous too. At least I’m not alone in this. But I can’t explain what I really feel: a sexual hunger? A much darker desire?
I step back slightly. It doesn’t change the fact he’s my employee and looks like my husband. A really shitty combination.
I head to the sink, grab the forgotten glass, and pass by him.
“Take a break,” I order as I leave the room.“And go get me something at the Diner. I’ll eat it later.”
Kiran waits for me, hands crossed behind his head.
“You’re thinking about fucking him,” he states.
“Shut up…”
“Fire him and hire a nice local guy.”
Impossible. I’ve already slept with most of the men in this town. It would be a stupid idea, knowing some still hope for things I’ll never give them. The idea of family and kids? Buried. That kind of dream isn’t meant for guys like me.
“I won’t fuck him,” I reassure.
Kiran uncrosses his arms and takes a sip of his drink.
“Why can’t I believe you?”
I pick up my machine, settle on my stool, and start working.
“Faith’s for church. Now shut up for real so I can work.”
The buzzing returns to my hand, wiping away all thoughts of Andrew or William. I’m grateful to have found this outlet.
Hours pass. I let myself get carried away by the noise and that saving sensation in my arm. The tattoo machine dances on his skin. He doesn’t move. It’s pleasant and easy. Some clients complain about pain and fidget, requiring frequent breaks to avoid ruining the tattoo.
I finish my work, put down the machine, clean the area, and apply soothing cream.
Kiran stands and moves to the mirror. He admires the snake on his chest, whose eyes seem to pierce the soul.
“Incredible,” he praises me.“You outdid yourself.”
I shrug. Over the years, my art has sharpened and improved.
Kiran comes back to me and I cover his tattoo with plastic wrap.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Seven-fifty. You can pay Andrew.”
