Page 40 of Four Tattoos

When he says he has, an unreasonable wave of jealousy washes over me. I have no right to feel that way, but there it is, nonetheless. “Have you ever gotten turned on while you were tattooing someone?” I ask.

Christian, who’s still gently stroking my bare breast, just lightly enough to make me feel good without tempting me to squirm, asks, “You mean like right now?”

“Not now, but how about other times?”

“Something in your tone tells me you don’t really want to know,” Mace says.

“I’m just curious.” I’m always so curious about these men. The more I learn about them, the more I want to know.

“I have,” Mace says. “It’s a very rare thing, though. I’m usually too focused on my work.”

“And we’re usually tattooing big, hairy dudes,” Zipper says, speaking for the first time in a while.

“Big hairy dudes aside, have you ever slept with any of your customers?” I probably don’t want to know the answer to this either, but I can’t keep myself from asking.

Hutch glances up at me, arching a brow, as Christian says, “Not since we’ve been in business here. Not until you, but you’re not technically a customer.”

“What do you mean? You’re putting a tattoo on me in your shop. I’d say that makes me a customer.”

“But you’re not paying for it,” Christian says.

“Yes, I am.” I didn’t realize they thought I was expecting a free tattoo.

Hutch pauses his work, giving me another look, much more stern this time. “No, you’re not.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument.

The men rotate through their order again, and when it’s time for a break, I’m treated to another spectacular orgasm. It’s better pain relief than any medicine, and it turns an already special experience into one I’ll never, ever forget.

Whenever my time with these men ends, I know I’ll be returning to this day in my fantasies for years to come.

I purposely avoided looking at the tattoo while the men were working on it, so when they tell me it’s finished, I close my eyes and inhale, preparing for what I know is going to be a big moment.

Letting out my breath, I open my eyes and look down. The skin on my thigh is red and puffy, but that doesn’t distract from the beauty of their creation. The flower design looks cohesive, rather than disjointed, but I can instantly tell who did which section based on what I’ve learned about the men’s styles.

Hutch’s work is traditional, with steady lines and shading. Christian’s is much more loose and flowy, almost like a watercolor effect. Mace specializes in what I’ve learned is called a new school style, and his part of the rose has a fun comic book look. The last segment is Zipper’s, rendered only in black and white, but with so much realistic detail that it looks like the petals of the flower are blooming from my skin.

“I love it. So much. It’s perfect.”

“You lived through it,” Hutch teases, and I can tell how pleased he is by my reaction.

“It was definitely worth it.”

He takes my hand to help me up and leads me over to a mirror that’s on the side wall. The tattoo looks perfect when I look directly down at it, and it also looks great reflected in the mirror. “Your design is so clever and perfect.” All four men are gathered around me, and as I tell them this, a few tears dampen my eyes.

Hutch notices immediately, and his face fills with concern. “Is it really sore?”

I shake my head. “Just a little bit. I’m just so touched by this. It’s so creative, and so beautiful.”

It’s not a lie, but what’s really triggering my tears is the fact that this tattoo will forever be a reminder of these men, and the thought of them no longer being in my life is what’s truly painful.

30

ROSE

The brothers in ink insist that I come to their shop or house at least once a day so they can care for my tattoo as it heals. I’d been seeing them nearly every day already, but since it isn’t always possible to fit a visit into my schedule, they start placing coffee orders again to give me an added excuse to come to the shop at least five days of the week.

Once I see what the actual care consists of—washing the tattoo and applying ointment or lotion that can be purchased at any drugstore—I realize that they’re just using the tattoo as an excuse to have me stop by every day, and I’m very flattered.

“Do you offer this kind of after-care service to all of your clients?” I ask as Hutch smooths a thin layer of lotion over my tattoo. It’s been less than a week, and it seems to be healing very well. It looks better as each day goes by, though they did warn me to expect it to fade eventually. I try not to draw comparisons between the artwork fading and our relationship—if you can call it that—fading someday.

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