by Brynn Hale
His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. I know that everything out of my mouth sounds like a sexual invitation to him and maybe it is. I can’t imagine having his hands on my body. It’s going to be both torture and…pleasure.
He rounds the chair and holds the design up to me, moving it around. Front, back, side, lower and lower. He stops with his knuckles pressing the design lightly into my ass and upper thigh. “Here.”
The room spins for a second as I imagine being exposed to him.
I glance back as he squats behind me. His eyes move up from my ass, not much left to the imagination in my workout leggings. “Let’s do it, Cray.”
That cocky smirk slides slowly over his face as he stands, his front brushing against my back, whispering in my ear, “Your wish is my command, baby.”
Cray
This project is going to be the death of me. It’s the reason I wore my loose joggers and tighty-whities. I need to keep talking down the monster in my pants. And now I’ll be looking at her ass for the next two, maybe three days for hours on end. Not torture at all. I even get lightheaded just thinking about it.
I make the stencil while eating one of the burritos, delicious—egg, sausage, mushroom, cheese—savory, salty, and hearty. She knows the way to my…
I swallow the thought away and go back to making the stencil.
The outline has to be in two parts due to its size, about two smaller dinner plates, and I’m a little concerned that she won’t be able to last for the whole thing. But I’ll talk her through it, doing outline first and then seeing how much shading and coloring we can get through.
I bring it back and she’s sitting on my stool. “Ready?” I ask. I always give an out moment to every client and in the last two years about one a month has taken me up on. A tattoo is a personal choice and a big one at that. Removal isn’t the answer. Walking away is.
“I am and I guess this is the part where I have to show you the canvas?”
“I can’t tattoo through pants, babe.”
She stands up, holds my gaze, before turning her back to me and slipping her hands into the waistband. Like she’s unveiling the Venus, she slips the second-skin shiny pants over one hip and then the other and then all the way down, stepping out of them.
I swallow, fighting every urge to look down, but instead, reach back and pull the curtain closed on my bay. No one ever comes in on Sunday, but I’d be pissed if this was the first time anyone tried to make me a liar. “I’ll put a towel over you. Go on ahead and lay down.”
“I shaved.” Her voice quivers.
My betraying gaze rises from the floor to find a beautifully bald pussy beaconing to me.
“Fuck,” I hiss the word through my teeth.
I don’t know if I can do it. I have to be a professional when all I want to be is…not. To bend her over that chair and drive home, hearing her scream my name is all I can think of. “Looks good,” I growl, looking her in the eye.
“I’m imagining I need to be on my stomach.”
“Yeah. Let me adjust the table.” I lay it flat and turn it so that her right side will be facing me near my equipment. “Head at this end. I have a couple pillows if you want one.” She picks up the smallest one from the box in the corner.
I sit down and start my normal paces, but I’m feeling like this is anything but routine. It’s like I’ll be touching a canvas for the first time again. I’m flowing with a new energy that I haven’t felt in a while. I’d been giving everything, when I didn’t have anything left to give.
“Okay, take a couple deep breaths.” I explain the procedure. Her face turns to me as she balances it on her crossed arms. “You sure?”
Naomi purses her lips. “I just want you to know what this means to me.”
“Anytime, babe.”
“And I trust you.”
I fight back some burning sensation in my chest. To me, trust is one of the ultimate human sacrifices. I’ve been where trust is almost all I’ve had and I’ve had it blown away right in front of me.
“I’m ready, Cray.”
I go into a focused mode, ignoring that she’s naked from the waist down, although I do pull a towel over her legs and wrap her feet so they stay warm. In about ten minutes, I’ve cleaned, coated the area with green soap, and applied the stencil.
“You want to see it in the mirror before I start inking?” I ask.
“Nope. I know you wouldn’t do it, unless it was perfect.”
She’s right. I’m not one that says, “Good is good enough.” And neither are the six other artists in my shop. We’re definitely, “You will be ecstatic or it’s a fail. And we don’t fail.”
Every one of us knows our strengths and part of me considers bringing Kash in to do some of the shading and Oz in for the watercolor and I will…if I have to. But at the moment, I want no one else to touch her. Not one single man to even look at her café au lait-kissed skin because…this woman is mine.
Naomi’s mine.
Five
Naomi
It’s not what I imagined. It’s worse. Not because he’s doing something wrong, but because, let’s be honest, it’s someone using a needle thousands of times to poke ink into skin.
Should have started out small.
But I’m committed now. I take some slow deep breaths.
“You okay?’
“Just a little antsy.”
We’ve kept the conversation to a minimum. I’ve tried to stay still, but it’s hard when I know those crystal blue eyes are staring at my ass and upper thigh. I’m sure there’s not much left to the imagination. I’m not the specimen of perfection that some of his clients probably are, but then again, I try to tell myself that no one is perfect.
“I’m almost done with the outline, I’d say twenty more minutes, and then I’ll give you a break.” His glove covered hand rests in the small of my back.
“I don’t want to see it until it’s all done.”
“That’s up to you, babe.”
Normally, I’d hate if a man calls me anything but my name, but for some reason with Cray, it runs a slither of pleasure through my core. I’ve been trying to concentrate on anything but his hands being on me. For a while I was sure my pussy was soaking the bed sheet over the bed, but soon I calmed, and I figured every woman probably would have the same reaction. He’s just fucking hot. There’s no way around it and if I didn’t have a reaction, then I’d assume my body had given up. Years. Years without the wanted touch of a man. I’d experienced some unwanted touches from my work, and those men usually ended up face down on the ground and asking for mercy. I’m not sadistic and I never use physical means, unless absolutely necessary.
Well, not never…
I remember shoving Cray up against the brick outside last night and I stifle a moan as his hand nears my buttcrack. I know he could’ve turned the tables on me and had me up against that wall, too. In fact, I think that it would be fun to go head to head with him in the ring someday. I’m not afraid of him. I also know that’s not how every woman is. Like my sister Joanie. She didn’t start out afraid of her husband.
Cray clears his throat. “You have any siblings?” It’s like the man can read my mind and it scares me a little.
“Had one.”
“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
I pause. The story still breaks me in half, and I consider giving the Cliffs Notes version to keep my shit together. But I also know that I need to keep telling Joanie’s story, so people understand what domestic violence really is.
“My sister was killed ten years ago by her husband. They started out just fine, but he slowly became more controlling of the finances, her movements, her friends, her likes and dislikes, until when I’d call, she sounded like a robot.
I clear my throat and continue, “I knew something was wrong, but she still lived in the small town in Southeast Nebraska where we grew up, and I lived here. I moved for a job with a non-profit organization that helps veterans almost two decades ago.
Joanie ignored her fears because what she thought was love obstructed her view, and the fact she had two young girls to care for with little means didn’t help to clear the vision of what she deserved versus what she was getting. She trusted him too much when she shouldn’t have trusted him at all.”
I swallow back the pain that hurts more than the tattooing does. “Then there was a day when she’d finally had enough. Left him. And he came after her. He never had the fear, he only instigated the fear. He found her off a credit card trace done by his asshole friend, a police officer who’s still on the force because he was a ‘victim’.”
“Fuck that.”
“Exactly. He shot Joanie in front of my two nieces, Eve and Zoe. And then he tried to get them to go with him. Eve, the oldest, planned with her sister, Zoe, how they would get away, and a clerk at a convenience store called the police when they stopped for gas and she slipped him a note. The asshole is spending life in prison because he was a felon in possession of a firearm anyway. I won’t even get into his rapsheet cause that’s a whole other story.”
“Sounds like a bona fide asshole to me. So then Eve and Zoe…”
“They’re mine now. I drove back to Nebraska, started the proceedings and in less than a year I was their guardian and then I adopted them here in Nevada. I was only twenty-six at the time, but I realized I needed them as much as they needed me.”
His hands come to a rest, one on my shoulder and one on my thigh. “Naomi, I…I can imagine how hard that was on both you and those little girls.” His voice is tight and I hear some emotion that I recognize, but I can’t see him.
“Still is…” I wipe away tears. Maybe it’s the tattoo pain, but I doubt it. He’s right, this is emotional, and the layers inside of me feel like they’re being shed in the presence of this man.
I hear the rollers on his stool squeak and his face enters my vision. “I only have a couple more sections, but I’m going to have to touch you in places where you might not feel comfortable. Do I have your permission?” He squeezes my arm.
I lean toward him a little. “Cray, you can touch me wherever you’d like.”
His face nears mine and I hope that this will be our first real kiss, but he breaks for my forehead and lingers a soft kiss there. “First the tattoo, then maybe more, babe.”
God, he’s good. I’m a hundred percent wet. My clit pulses and when I adjust on the table, I can’t help but whimper. He returns to what he was doing, but he was right. His fingers manipulate my skin and my ass cheeks are spread apart. He’s getting a real view of what I never thought I’d let any man see. But it only makes me shiver in anticipation. His fingers slip lower as the machine glides across my skin. He’s so close to touching the start of my pussy lips…another half inch. Another quarter inch and then one floats over them and I cry out with a quake of my body.
The machine stops the incessant humming.
“Fuck, babe.” His voice is low and almost like an animal, choking back his desire. “One more pass, I promise.”
The machine starts back up and this time there’s no mistaking where his fingers are headed as they skim over my ass. He cups my whole pussy in his gloved hand, his middle finger landing firmly on my clit, not pressing, but like a butterfly landing. He holds my thigh skin taut to get to where he needs to finish.
“Keep still, Naomi. Please, thirty more seconds.”
I pant, but not in pain. The warmth of his hand presses into me and I savor how much I’ve missed a man’s touch. How I’m blossoming under his hand. The soft folds, pulsing and plumping.
“Ten more seconds, babe.” His middle finger presses just a little harder on my clit and I release a cross between a moan and a purr. “And done.”
But I’m not.
Six
Cray
The noises she’s making are porn star-esque and my cock throbs in my pants, almost lassoing all my brain power. I either have to go to the bathroom and jack off or she and I are going to spontaneously combust.
I finish cleaning her, avoiding any more touching, not that it’s helping either of us, then sanitize the equipment with my back to her. Hoping that my rager will deflate enough that I don’t scare her before I turn back around.
“Cray, did I do something wrong?” I hear the flat sheet on platform moving and I imagine her flipping over.
“Not at all.”
“I’m…I’m kinda embarrassed at what happened.”
I spin my stool like I’m going to fly off. “What? Why?” I rip off the gloves and I’m in front of her as she sits up, wrapping the sheet around her and her face confused. “Naomi, I have to keep a sterile working surface. I’m concerned about your tattoo healing, but babe, if you want me to dive in down there. I’m hungrier than a fucking wolf for your pussy.”
“Really?”
I don’t stop myself. I claim her mouth like a starving man. She is what I desire. Her gasp doesn’t read fear to me, but I slow my roll just a little. Hemi’s always said I can be a little impetuous. And I’ll admit, right now as my cock bursts to life again, I want to take this woman right on the edge of this bed. But there’s something in me that says I’ll regret that. I’ll regret not treating her like she’s special to me. Not treating her with the respect she deserves.
I slow the kiss, before swiping my tongue against the split of her lips. She opens and her tongue is in my mouth before I know what’s happening. I’ve never had a woman do this. Usually it’s a dual, but nothing like this. This is a full-fledged clash. The woman is bold and fearless. And I love it. I slip a hand into her hair, that damn ponytail in my way, but I leave it. I’ll leave it until she’s screaming for me to take her. I slide a hand down her neck, exploring the graceful lines of the long muscles. Down, down to her chest, cupping the round globe over her shirt and trying to keep from coming in my pants. Her chest is an orb of heaven, heavy in my hand. I lift the edge of her T-shirt and tank-top at the same time and I rip my lips from hers so I can worship her. I fall to my knees and my lips cup over her nipple.
“Yes!” she cries out into the dark shop, my cubby being the only one with the lights on. “Cray, don’t stop, please. Just…” She stills. “Did you hear that?”
I’m lost to her chest, moving to the other tit and administering as much care as I did to the first one.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Shit.
I stand upright and pull down her shirt. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
“Okay. Hurry back, please.” Her chest heaves in long waves of lust. She reaches down and cups my cock. “Oh, sweet, anaconda… what is that?”
I chuckle as I grab a clipboard to hold in front of my crotch and walk out.
Fuck. Probably someone’s Tattie.
A girl not much more than eighteen stands at the door, her hand held up so she can see inside. Her eyes widen when she catches sight of me.
I turn the deadbolt. “Hey, we’re closed today. If you come back tomorrow, I’ll have one of the artists get you on the schedule.”
“Um…no, I’m Zoe and I’m looking for my…mo—Naomi.”
And reality is a fuckin’ brick wall.
“Naomi, it’s Zoe!” I call out. “I’ll go get some lunch for us and be back in ten.”
“Thanks, Cray,” she calls out as I motion Zoe inside. “First booth on the left.”
“Thanks…Cray is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Great name.”
“Thanks, Zoe, same to you.”
Cool kid. Not at all what I expected when she said she had daughters. I was thinking dolls and pigtails. But I also see the twinge of fear. Not that every woman who’s been through domestic violence cowers in my presence, but I know that Hemi’s wife Cece did for a while because her Asshole Number 1 did a major number on her. I don’t like that this girl can’t be at ease around me. Trust. If it’s going to be a factor with her daughter…it’s going to be a factor with Naomi.
I walk next door to The Beanery to give them space. As m
uch as that tea was good, I need something much more like caffeinated tar to wake me up, especially now that I’ve crashed from the adrenaline rush after that kiss.
She needs a tattoo. I need to give her the tattoo. Even if I want to give her so much more. And I don’t mean just sex. My mind wanders to hiking with her, her skin glistening in the hot summer sun. Taking her on my bike…and I also mean taking her on my bike. Making breakfast and serving her in bed and ending up staying in bed. Shit like that. And that scares the shit out of me.
Seeing Zoe—comprehending that there’s another life involved in this equation—gives perspective into what I was doing. I’m not saying I’m not going to stop. Fuck no. But I’m saying that I want to make sure we’re not muddying the waters of what we really need from each other.
“What did you say?” Ms. Queenie asks from behind the counter as I don’t even realize I’ve stepped through the door.
“Was I talking to myself?”
“Yes, child, you most definitely were.” She juts out a hip. “Something about muddied waters and needin’ each other?” Ms. Queenie leans on the counter with her elbows, shoving a pencil into her hair. “Now, tell me, who are these people needin’ each other and what water do you need cleared. Ms. Queenie is in the house for you, Cray.”
I shake my head and chuckle. “No need for barista-therapist today, just a large cup and a bran muffin.”
“But baby, that’s what Ms. Queenie does best. And bran muffin? Oooh, son, what are you really trying to clear out?”
Her business partner, but not life partner, Joaquin steps from the kitchen. “Uh-uh, Ms. Queenie, that’s not what Devlin told me you do best.” He rocks his head and rolls his eyes theatrically. These two are a comedy routine in the making and when I need a respite from the Tatties, this is where I come because I know that Ms. Queenie won’t allow that behavior here.