Page 14 of Inked Desires
He hands me a chocolate bar. My eyes involuntarily drop lower. The bulge in his jeans is impossible to ignore. He’s hard. Apparently, he’s not immune either.
“I don’t like sweets,” I say, shaking my head.
“You don’t like chocolate?”
I feel my cheeks flush. Yes, I’m one of those rare people who don’t like it.
“I prefer savory,” I admit.
His jaw tightens. He huffs and puts the bar aside.
“You should think about what you say,” he mutters to himself before leaving the room.
My cheeks burn redder at the thought that my words might have been misunderstood. I didn’t mean it as an invitation, but well...
He comes back carrying two plates, each with half a burger.
“It won’t be as good as yesterday’s, but it’ll do,” he explains.
I sit up on the table and take one plate. The burger’s cold, with a slight fridge taste, but it calms my trembling.
“Can I see your work?” I ask after finishing my part.
“I’m not done yet.”
I roll my head. My bones crack after so long stillness.
“I just want to take a look,” I insist.
Arès nods, takes my plate, and heads to the sink to wash his hands thoroughly before continuing. Suddenly, something catches my attention.
“You’re not wearing gloves to tattoo?”
He stops, freezes instantly. Then shuts off the water and dries his hands with a towel.
“Do my hands on your body bother you?”
Dry throat, short breath, I search for an answer that escapes me. It’s not his hands that hold me, but the weight of what it means to me. Memories explode, dull blows echo, fingers grip too tight, cruel whispers.
“No,” I whisper, voice strangled.
His nostrils flare. He closes his eyes for a moment, nods, then reopens them.
“Good,” he replies simply.
He comes back to me.
“Turn around,” he orders.
His voice triggers an irresistible reflex: obedience. I bring my right leg onto the table to turn my back to him. Once again, he ignores the chair beside me and sits right behind me.
He resumes his work. His fingers first glide along my spine down to my tailbone, then veer off to find my scar precisely. His scent envelops and holds me. I hate myself for it, but I only breathe deeply and let myself go with his movements. I mustn’t show anything.
The buzzing of the tattoo machine resumes, and the needle attacks my neck again to finish its work. We remain silent. The pain doesn’t intensify; it stays a rhythmic tingling that paradoxically frees me. This ink returns a part of myself that Jace had stolen. I finally belong to myself, and no one else. Arès probably has no idea what he’s giving me right now. I won’t tell him, but my gratitude is immense.
“It’s done,” he says, turning off the machine.
He stands and offers me his hand. I place my fingers in his, accepting the gesture. My back straightens, and a slight moan escapes me as a shiver runs through me. A deep vibration travels from his palm to my arm. I look up. Arès stares at me with an almost bestial intensity. I bite my lips before slowly standing, removing my palm from his.
