Page 6 of Ink Me Three Times
He doesn’t answer. Just slips on his gloves, thesnapof latex somehow obscene in the quiet. Then he steps in close.
Too close.
His touch is cool, deliberate, as he swabs the skin at my shoulder blade, but his fingers linger, just long enough to make my breath catch. The pad of his thumb grazes the base of my neck, barely a brush, but my whole body lights up like a wire’s been tripped.
It’s not just that he’s touching me. It’showhe touches me. Like he knows exactly what he's doing. Like he’s tuned to some secret frequency only my skin can hear.
A shiver climbs my spine. Not from the cold.
I don’t know if it’s nerves or the way he smells, like leather and smoke and some dark, dangerous memory I want to wrap myself in, but suddenly I’m aware of everything. The thin cotton of my shirt clinging to my spine. The air between us, heavy with something I don’t have a name for. The heat rolling off him in quiet, restrained waves.
And the way he’s looking at me… like he sees straight through the bravado and into the crack beneath it.
The machine buzzes to life, and I almost welcome the sound. It’s real. Physical. Loud enough to chase off the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.
"This’ll hurt more than the original," he says, voice low, his eyes locked on mine.
God, those eyes.
"I’m not scared of pain," I murmur, barely trusting my voice.
That earns me alook. A pause, like he’s deciding something. Then his gaze drops, slow and heated, from my mouth to my collarbone to the tattoo he’s about to erase. Heat flares low in my belly, sharp and sudden.
Then he leans in.
The first sting of the needle should pull me out of it. Should ground me. But all it does is drive me deeper into the strange, liquid haze that’s started to settle under my skin.
Because he’s close. So fucking close. His thigh brushes my knee as he shifts, and every exhale lands warm against my neck. I swear I can feel his heart beat in the space between us, steady and sure, like the rhythm of the machine in his hand.
And the way he works… damn. It’s more than focused. It’s reverent. Like he’s not just covering something up, but rewriting it. Undoing the damage. Offering something better in return.
I try not to look at him. I really do.
But I can’t help it.
He’s beautiful in that maddening, quietly ruinous way. Brow furrowed. Mouth set in a line that says he’s seen some shit and lived to draw about it. There’s something almost holy in his concentration… like if I touched him, I’d burn.
And Iwantto touch him. That’s the problem. I want to know what he feels like when he’s not holding back.
"You’re really good," I say, just to fill the silence, just to make him look at me again.
"Thanks," he says without looking up.
"Do you draw all your own pieces?"
He nods. "Most of them."
I nod toward the sketchbook on the counter. "You have a favorite?"
A beat.
"Yeah."
"You gonna tell me what it is?"
"No."
I smile. "Mysterious, broody artist type. Got it."
