Page 113 of Full Tilt
“And a free show,” he adds. “You’ve been staring at my mouth for ten minutes.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He just smirks.
The session flows from there—me drifting in and out of conversation, him focused and maddeningly hot while he works. And somehow, the pain of the tattoo becomes background noise compared to the pulse in my blood every time his fingers brush too close to my ribs.
When he finally lifts the needle, stretches his back, and murmurs, “Break time,” I’m both disappointed and relieved.
He leans over me again, a paper towel in one hand, the other braced on the headrest near my temple. “Want water?” he asks softly.
“No. I want you.”
He blinks.
“After the session,” I amend quickly, voice low.
His grin returns, slow and wicked. “Good. Because I’ve got plans.”
And just like that, I feel the hum of anticipation slide right under my skin—just like his ink.
Brent barely finishes wiping down the ink before I’m already shifting in the chair, wound tighter than a goddamn drum. Hisvoice—normally smooth and low—is in full professional mode as he starts rattling off post-ink care instructions.
“You’ll need to wash it gently tonight. No direct sunlight, no?—”
“I swear to God,” I cut in, sitting up slowly, the muscles across my chest and arm pulling, “if you don’t stop talking and kiss me, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Brent’s mouth quirks. That lip ring catches the light, and I’m done.
“You know,” he says, pulling off his gloves, “I usually like to be courted before being jumped.”
I roll my eyes and stand, crowding into his space. “You courted me with needles and filthy grins. That’s on you.”
He snorts a laugh, but it dies the second I press in, our bodies aligning like magnets with unfinished business. One of his hands finds my waist. The other skims low. Too low. And I almost moan.
But the sharp clang of the front doorbell cuts through the haze.
Brent stills, groaning quietly. “Christy’s out front.”
I pull back a breath, only enough to whisper, “So?”
“So, unless you want an audience….” His voice is gravel now. His restraint is admirable, but unnecessary.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bitten back a noise,” I say. “But you make it bloody difficult.”
Brent mutters something under his breath that sounds like “You’re going to be the death of me” before grabbing my hand. He drags me through the hallway and out into the reception area like a man on a mission. “I’m done for the day!” he calls.
Christy looks up from the desk, barely hiding her smirk. “Oh? That wouldn’t have anything to do with your mystery client turning out to be your boyfriend, would it?”
Brent doesn’t stop walking.
“It’s a good job I cleared your schedule, hey, boss?” she calls after us, clearly enjoying herself.
He flips her a casual two-finger salute. “Remind me to give you a raise.”
I’m still laughing as the door swings shut behind us. The sunlight hits my fresh ink—stinging faintly beneath the wrap—but I barely feel it. All I feel is him.
Brent lives a short walk from the studio, and we take it fast. My legs eat up the distance, driven entirely by need. I’ve never been this impatient to get someone alone before. And maybe it’s not just sex. Maybe it’s the closeness. The hunger. The magnetic pull of being apart too long.
