The Tattoo Artist's Mate

by Doris O'Connor

  Josh whistled through his teeth and laid a wad of cash on the counter, as he looked between Gaspar and the young woman now standing hesitantly in the doorway.

  “Right, okay well, I say, I’ll best be off then. Er, take care and thanks. I’ll let you know if we need another one. See you around, Gaspar. Miss. Here ye go. He doesnae bite…” He held the door open for the redhead who seemed to be as mesmerized with Gaspar as his bear and him were in her, and ushered her in. “Well not unless he’s provoked or…”

  Not tactful then. Bastard.

  “Josh, zip it.”

  Josh laughed. “Aye, right oh. He’s okay miss, honestly. An awkward bugger, but a fine one. You’ve nowt to fear from him.” He turned back to Gaspar, winked and mouthed “good luck”. Gaspar was certain the sod said something along the lines of “he’ll fuck you senseless given half a chance”.

  Which was true, but only with her consent and her knowledge of what it would mean. His bear was very much aware of her and if they mated—not just screwed or fucked, but made love—she’d have no chance to leave without one hell of a dust up. Mated meant for life and that was that.

  Whatever she was.

  Gaspar ignored Josh, the fucker, and sniffed the air again. Human? Seemed like it.

  His heat sank. That made life twice as hard.

  “I’m away.” Josh raised his hand in farewell, and Gaspar grunted. No doubt Josh would tell Bella all about the carrot-top with the big eyes and gorgeous figure, and Bella would come around demanding the gen, but that was for later. Now every fiber of his being was focused on the redhead. Who looked as if she didn’t know whether to throw up or do a runner.

  Josh meanwhile laid one large hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Do come in, lassie. I know he looks mean, but he’s the best. We’re friends from way back, and there’s no one I’d trust more to ink me.” He waved his inked sleeve at her. “You’re in good hands.”

  Gaspar flipped Josh the finger, which elicited a cock-hardening gasp from the woman staring at him. Wide, deep, moss-colored eyes a man could drown in, full lips, which simply invited him to taste, to devour. Curves in all the right places and breasts… He nigh on salivated. Breasts to fill his hands and more. Breasts to suckle, nip, and lave.

  He let his gaze move higher and was mesmerized. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her slender throat at the base of which a pulse beat a rapid staccato in tune to his, and his bear grumbled anew.

  Know it, take hold of it. Mine. His. Fuck a duck. As he thought, he was committed to a human? Mine, all mine, and sod the human bit. I’ll sort it somehow. She is the woman I’ve dreamed about.

  As thought processes went these were as caveman-like as they came. Bloody alien to him as well. What the fuck? However, there again, it wasn’t every day that the one woman destined to be with you walked in your shop like an offering from the gods above. She might not know it, but he as sure as hell did. She was his mate. From then on and forever. All he had to do was show her, persuade her and… His brain didn’t process anything beyond that.

  His mate’s eyes widened further, and she took an involuntary step—toward him, he noticed, not away—which had no doubt been her intention, if the confused look in her expressive eyes was any indication. A trembling hand pushed her long mane of riotous red curls away from her face, and now Gaspar had the devil of a job to keep his eyes off the impressive cleavage straining against the sensible blouse she wore tucked into her jeans. There wasn’t an ounce of artifice about his mate, not a speck of make-up on her face. Just vibrant, delicious woman, with lush curves to die for and the sweetest scent, which made his bear damn near itch to burst through his skin. To claim, to devour, to mark.

  Mine.

  He did neither, of course. That would send her screaming. Now. So he simply inhaled deeply, satisfied to not scent any specific attachment to another male. Not that it would have mattered to his bear. His beast was all but ready to tear the throat out of any man, or animal, who dared brush up against his mate, and make no mistake about it, this woman would be his. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Boy was she in for a surprise. Hell, he hoped it would be a good one.

  Mindful of the fact that he must look like a complete asshole, Gaspar forced a smile on his face, scrubbed his hand over his beard and somehow got his vocal cords to work.

  “Sorry about Josh.” He waved towards the alley where Josh had by then disappeared. “He means well, but his sense of humor needs working on, big time. Sometimes as his wife says, he’s not too big for a skelp around the lug and needs it. Anyway, enough of him. Come on in. What can I do for you today?” Gaspar did his best to keep the possessive note out of his voice. He wasn’t sure he managed it, but what the fuck? It couldn’t be helped, and it was certain it would just get stronger as time went on. She might as well get used to it now rather than later.

  Baby steps. Fuck it, I’ll just try to do steps, and not tell her everything at once. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain himself to an unsuspecting human. Baby steps might be best. If only he knew what the hell they were. Why in all the world had a human been sent for him?

  “Take your time.” He handed her a bottle of water. She took it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, slow swig before she recapped the bottle.

  “I, well that is, I’m not sure you can, it’s just…” Heat rose in her cheeks under his silent scrutiny, and the wave of protectiveness that engulfed Gaspar made his chest feel tight. When had he ever experienced such an emotion before?

  Like, never. It was unnerving to say the least.

  He crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, and she jumped when he placed his large hand over hers to gently pry away the death grip she still had on the door.

  “Come in and sit down.” He did his best to keep his animal under control and not let it bleed into his body, or his voice. Soft and unthreatening was needed, not macho and bear. “Whatever it is, it’s got something to do with a tattoo, I bet, and I can most definitely help with that.” He smiled down on her, and some of her underlying tension went out of her small frame.

  “It’s my forte,” he added. “I can do what you need.”

  So small, and delicate, she fit right under his armpit. No doubt she didn’t see herself like that, but for him, she was perfect. To have and to hold.

  Down, boy, don’t frighten her.

  “Is this where you’re saying ‘trust me, I’m a tattoo artist’?” Her voice, while still wobbly, held a certain amount of snark, and Gaspar grinned.

  “That what the one said who gave you whatever you want changed?” he countered, and she narrowed her eyes, put her hand on her hips and stepped into the shop at last. The door banged shut, and she jumped a little in surprise.

  “How do you know that’s what happened? I might just fancy getting my first one.” She raised her gaze to his briefly and promptly dropped it to his collarbone when he raised an eyebrow in silent query.

  “Then I would stand corrected, but that’s not the case this time, is it?” he said gently. There was no point in anything confrontational. “And how I know? Let’s just say, I’ve been in the business a long time, and I’m very good at reading people. So, where is it? Why do you want it removed? What’s your name, and how do you take your coffee?”

  He winked at her sharp inhale, and she relaxed further and sat down on the plush settee he kept for waiting customers. A sod to remember not to let any shifter near when aroused—he’d lost four already to sharp claws and teeth—but perfect for ambience. His little human darted a glance toward the book of sketches and photos of past tattoos and then looked up at him.

  “On my ankle. ‘Cause it’s the dumb name of my ex. Isla Campbell, and white coffee, no sugar, please.”

  “Sweet enough already?” he asked with a smirk, and she rolled her eyes.

  “How original and nope, I’m told I’m rather tart, but sugar goes straight to my hips if I as much as look at it.”

  Gaspar led his gaze linger on s
aid parts of her, and her breathing sped up under his silent perusal, which pleased the possessive animal in him no end. Already her scent was beginning to take on a personal note, one which any other shifter would understand to mean that she was spoken for. That she had a mate whether she knew it or not.

  In this case probably not.

  “And damn fine hips they are, too, if you ask me.” He smiled at her as he handed her a cup of the steaming brew and then sat next to her. The sofa dipped under his considerable bulk, which, as he well knew, meant she slid toward him with a little squeak. Their thighs touched, and even through the layers of denim separating them, the connection between them arched, shimmering in almost visible tremors. Gaspar wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and to tell her it was okay. That she was safe. That no one would ever hurt her again, but he had to tread easy. To spook her away now, to let on how much he knew about her just from that accidental touch, how much his bear was itching to hunt down the fucker whose name she wore on her ankle, was not his intention.

  The beast would get his revenge in due course. For now, he sat back, smiled and nodded.

  “Okay, so tell me the story, and we’ll come up with a plan.”

  “Well…”

  Five minutes later her litany of her tattoo finished. “So I walked, and now need to get rid of that last reminder of my stupidity.”

  “We’re all stupid at times,” Gaspar said in his deep, growly voice. “But I know just the thing to get rid of yours. How do you fancy a bear and a honeypot instead?”

  Chapter Three

  Bear? Honeypot?

  Why was her skin clammy, hot and cold all at once? Why were her nipples hard and sore, and why did she want to jump his bones? That was so not her. What the hell was going on? Had the tattoo guy hypnotized her? Why was he staring at her so intently? And why, for fuck’s sake did his eyes glow? Why so many whys?

  Questions bombarded her, and she swallowed hard to make sure her nausea didn’t overwhelm her. She was not going to throw up.

  “Baby?”

  That dragged her attention back to him big time.

  Baby? Oh no not a baby, never ever, nada, niet, nein, and bloody no. “Excuse me?” The frost in her voice made her wince. It didn’t seem to much please the big, hunky tattoo artist either. Tough, except … those glowing eyes flashed, and she could swear he growled.

  Growled? Not just a deep baritone with gravelly undertones but a proper growl. Good grief, those late-night shifter movies were much too graphic and she watched way too many if that were the direction in which her mind headed.

  Enough already.

  “Baby?”

  Sheesh that voice, impatient or not, made her pussy clench and her clit throb.

  Automatic climax. Except.

  No, not in a million years. Asshole. Isla let her temper free. Hadn’t she decided she was no longer a doormat? Well, nor was she anybody’s baby. Except her mum and dad’s and even they’d passed the stage of calling her that many years earlier.

  “I, mate, am nobody’s baby.” She poked him in the chest, amazed at her temerity.

  He narrowed his eyes and raised one eyebrow.

  “I haven’t been for the last twenty-seven or so years,” Isla said firmly. Or she hoped she did. She wasn’t too sure there hadn’t been a wee tremor in her voice. “No goo, goo, ga, ga, fart, giggle, shit and pee over anyone. I can walk, talk, go to the loo unaided and hit the porcelain without wetting the floor. Oh, and guess what? I can add up my checkbook, well I would if we still had the darned things, am articulate and intelligent and able to stand up for myself.” Okay maybe that should be I am trying bloody damned hard. “Not a baby, get it? My name is Isla. Or Miss Campbell to you.”

  To her relief his expression changed from thunderous to amused, and he chuckled as he shook his head.

  “Feisty, eh? I see interesting times ahead.”

  There was that damned glow in his eyes again. It made her want to fidget and look anywhere but at his face. The trouble was if she lowered her gaze not only did it bring an impressive bulge in his jeans to eye level, it reminded her of things she wanted to forget. Not the bulge but the lowered eyes stuff.

  Bloody Julian. Is he going to ruin the rest of my life as well? To her utmost relief Isla got her mad back in spades. Sod it, I am not a coward. Isla stared at the tattoo guy and dared him to comment on her expression.

  “Mate, that’s for sure. Campbell? That’s too bad.” He flicked her chin up. “But I’ll cut you a break. You can’t help your ancestors. No, don’t bristle, it’s true. As for the rest? No more poking. It irritates me. And, listen well, I’m not into scat or golden showers so you’ve nothing to worry about there. I want you in a much more sensual way.”

  Scat? Gold… Heat rushed into her cheeks. What was he? She pulled herself up to her full five feet three. No mean feat when she was sitting, or more to the point, slumping, on a big squishy sofa with a hunk of a man so close she could feel his body heat, and sense his own personal scent. Arousing was an understatement. Why she had no idea. Sweaty men didn’t usually do anything for her. Now though?

  Hold on. Was there a damp animal about? She could swear she could smell one. Maybe not politic to ask. She chose to reply to his last words instead.

  “That is not the sort of thing I want to talk about.” Shit, what did she sound like? Talk about up herself. “It’s…” What was it? “Nothing to do with me.”

  He did that bloody sniff thing again, nodded and smirked. “Fair enough if you think so. Up to me to show you different. Later. Now, shall we talk about everything else?”

  “What?” There was nothing else, surely? Except how soon could she get off the sofa and be out of there. Tattoo be damned. There must be somewhere else she could clear off. This was all a bit much. “Nothing to talk about. I better go.”

  He shook his head, and his hair flew around him like a tawny halo. “You better not. There’s plenty to talk about. Like why you’re here. Apart from changing a tattoo.”

  “That’s all I’m here for.”

  He grinned, and she blinked as he tapped her nose. A couple of his pearly whites didn’t seem innocent. More like…

  Fangs? Oh, shut up now, Isla. Enough of the animal stuff. But the tap on the nose was like a tattoo in itself. A tap of possession. That wasn’t on.

  “Do not touch me, you, you….” She stopped speaking as his eyes narrowed and his lips firmed. “I don’t like it or want it.”

  “Tut-tut. Don’t lie, sweet Isla, or you’ll see punishment before pleasure and that’s a promise. We both know there’s more to it than that.”

  It was definitely time she went. Punishment? In his dreams. She fingered the sock full of sand in her pocket. It would make a great cosh if need be, and had been recommended to her by her mum as a precaution. Mum meant in case Julian appeared, but Isla thought it just sensible for any scenario.

  Never mind the tattoo change, if there were no other shops she thought acceptable, she’d live with it and wear socks or wellies.

  Isla grabbed hold of her handbag and maneuvered herself off the sofa and onto her feet. Boy she bet she looked about as elegant as an elephant doing the tango. Did elephants dance? Maybe she meant a chimpanzee or … a bear or … godallmightystop it. The man’s nearness was sending her crazy. She gave herself a stern talking to and him a frosty smile. The one that most men, when they saw it, took a step back, babbled some sort of apology or whatever, and got the hell out of Dodge.

  Not Gaspar MacDonald. Oh no, he, the bugger, gave a very unusual grin, stood up in one fluid movement she envied and took a step forward. Typical nose in MacDonald. She was the one who moved away.

  Forward, back, it’s like a bloody dance. Next, we’ll be do-si-do-ing or bowing before we do a two-step. Bring back today, please. Enough already. If she hadn’t been so unsettled it could have been amusing.

  “Don’t come near me.” Lordy, was that shrill squeak really her? It was pathetic. Isla cleared her throat
. “If you do, I’ll have to take drastic measures,” she said firmly, pleased her voice didn’t break, she didn’t stutter and actually did sound as if she meant what she said. “Scream, kick, sue or something.”

  “Definitely scream or something, baby,” he said in an amused, gravelly voice that did strange things to her insides and oh fuck made her panties damp.

  “That’s my promise and my oath,” he finished and pinched her cheek.

  God, who the hell did he think he was? “You know what? You’re screwy. Baby for fuck’s sake.” She shook her head. “Why not be really original? Honey boo, sweetie, sugar lump, pussycat, booty cakes… Argh. No, never, ever. It’s all touched in the head weird. Why the hell did anyone think this was the place to get a tattoo altered? I’ll use a permanent marker instead.” She headed for the door and pushed it open. “Sorry I’ve changed my mind.”

  He smirked. “I thought you said you’d wear socks.”

  Isla blinked as the door slammed shut and just missed her toes. She knew she hadn’t spoken that sentiment out loud. Ever since bloody Julian she’d been very careful about what she said and what she thought. That had been a thought.

  “Why do you say that?’ She almost added “asshole”, but the expression on his face stopped her. He looked … like a proper Dom. “Si…” Oops, no, not Sir. Not ever again. “Seems daft to me,” she added hastily. “Socks indeed.”

  “Ah, sweet Isla, you are so heading for a fall if you insist on lying to me.” He pinched her cheek, then pressed his lips to the spot.

  Never mind tattoo, that touch seared her like nothing ever had. Talk about spooky.

  “Pet, just try to trust me, eh? Take me as one who has your best interests at heart. To me, my pet means the one I care for most, the one who means most to me. My soul mate, my life. If it suits,” he lowered his voice to a sexy murmur. “My sub. What else would you say?”