Page 72 of Inked Desires
I stand still, stunned. A man steps into view. His very presence floods me with emotion. Messy hair. Strong brows. A faint scar on his left cheek. A slightly crooked nose. Full lips that complete the picture.
I wonder what color his eyes are. I want to see them, but he’s still focused on slipping on latex gloves.
I should say something. I should catch his attention. But I can’t find the words.
Then he finally looks up—and freezes.
Our eyes lock.
Time stretches.
It feels like some invisible force binds us. I slip into a kind of trance. Even the noise in my head fades to a distant hum.
He shakes his head at first, closes his eyes, and blinks several times. Finally, he looks at me again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses through clenched teeth.
I can’t pull myself together. I need to answer, but my lips simply refuse to move.
In three long strides, he’s in front of me. He glances toward the entrance, then grabs my arm tightly, making me jump. A jolt runs through me—small, sharp bursts of electricity that ripple beneath my skin and spread through my whole body. What the hell is that?
He drags me toward a small kitchen, tossing his gloves onto the counter with visible irritation.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he mutters darkly.
Okay. This guy clearly doesn’t like me. Did I forget to pay for the tattoo?
“Normally, people say hello first,” I mumble, trying to start a civil conversation.
His lips twitch slightly, as if he might smile, which weirdly makes me want to smile too.
“Hi,” he replies, his gaze scanning my face intently.
He’s still holding my arm.
“You could let go now,” I say gently.
He looks down at his hand as if only just realizing he’s touching me, then quickly releases it. He seems uncomfortable with the contact. Well, at least I’m not the only one feeling awkward here.
I turn around and lift my hair.
“Did you do this?”
There’s a pause. Then a long, heavy sigh.
“Yeah. It’s a cover-up,” he says.
“A cover-up?”
Another deep sigh. Then he grabs my free hand and lifts it. I’m about to protest when my fingers brush against my neck.
“Feel that? There’s another tattoo under the petals,” he says.
I frown, confused. I hadn’t noticed anything before.
“What was under it?” I ask, eager for answers.
“You don’t remember?” he counters.
