After Hours

by Jodi Lynn Copeland

She sat straighter and inclined her chin at what looked like a vivid black and orange monarch butterfly. She tried at an assertive tone. “I paid for it and I want it. It’s perfect for me.”

  He brought a hand to his jaw and rubbed. “Mmm…coulda fooled me, but it’s your body. So, where do you want this thing?”

  Good question. Since finishing chapter one of Achieving the Ultimate Orgasm, Joyce was anxious to change her after-hours persona as quickly as possible. At the same time, she wanted to get her customers used to the idea slowly. That ruled out placing the tattoo anywhere visible when dressed. She’d overheard Andy’s friends saying how much more sensitive, and therefore painful, it was to get one on skin located directly over bone. “Somewhere fatty.”

  He looked the length of her. “That rules out everywhere but your ass or your breasts. Let’s see what kind of rack you have hiding under that shirt.”

  She stiffened. Rick had used coarse language often, but she’d never heard it directed toward her out of a stranger’s mouth. And what exactly was that stranger asking her to do? “You want to see my chest?”

  “This tat ain’t getting on your body by magic, lady.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m new to this.” Why hadn’t she realized that getting a tattoo—or tat, as seemed to be the correct term—would entail her getting naked?

  “You don’t say,” he said sarcastically.

  Potentially good-looking or not, this guy was not of short-term-lover quality. His tone reminded her of the belittling way Rick used to talk to her. Those days were past. She was a smart-thinking, independent woman now who didn’t take flack from anyone and had no qualms about undressing for a stranger.

  Joyce stood and unbuttoned her shirt. She tossed it to the brownish looking stool a few feet away, wrinkling her nose when it fell on the floor instead. Too darned bad. Without her glasses, her depth perception was way off. She inhaled a nerve-fortifying breath as she popped the front clasp of her sensible white cotton bra, aimed for the stool a second time and once again missed.

  Ernie murmured, “Nice. Much more to work with than I’d guessed.”

  Her breath drew in sharply. She forgot all about the missed shots and fought the urge to cover her breasts. It was early July in Atlanta, the temperature in the high nineties outside and close to the same inside the shop. Gooseflesh rose on her skin all the same. She sank onto the chair, grasping for conversation. “Uh, thanks.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment, lady. Just gonna make my job easier. Now sit back and relax. The less tense you are, the better.”

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and brought the transfer sheet to her right breast. The heat of his hand melted through the gloves and the sheet as he rubbed the temporary tat on. The back of his hand grazed her nipple. She swallowed a gasp as carnal sensation shot from the tip directly to her sex. The rubbing moved inward, centimeters from her nipple, tightened her nipple to a hard, straining bud. Wetness gathered in her panties. She bit down on her lower lip and fought the urge to squirm.

  Ernie glanced up. “You cold, lady?”

  No. She was embarrassingly turned on by this guy who had a nasty habit of speaking down to her and, for all she could tell, was toothless and dirty. It had to be the hours she’d spent reading about orgasms. She’d passed the nonflushing penis-ogling test, but there was a heck of a lot more in that book than just penises. Detailed pictures covered every position and sexual scenario imaginable and quite a few she was pretty sure were impossible. Each one had had her a little more aroused than the last. She’d left the bookstore feeling incredibly naughty.

  This was neither the time nor the guy with which to act on that newfound naughtiness. “I’m a little chilly,” she lied. “Will that mess up the design?”

  “No. But I can turn up the heater if you want.”

  The offer was unexpected. He’d turned this place into a sweatshop for her benefit. She offered him the first real smile since walking through the door. “That’s okay. I can handle—it!” The smile died with a squeal as a needle prick of pain sliced through her breast. “Oh, my gracious!” It felt like he was jabbing a million tiny toothpicks into her boob. Maybe Rick had been right. Maybe getting a tattoo would be the death of her.

  “Just do your best to hold still,” Ernie advised. “You won’t feel much soon. The pain gets so intense after the first minute or two, the area turns mostly numb.”

  After the first minute or two? Was that to say it was going to get worse before it either numbed up or she passed out?

  Joyce’s eyes watered as he continued to work the needle across her breast, inking in the design with black. She closed her eyes and counted slowly, waiting for the numbness to settle in. It took far longer than predicted, but finally she could feel only dull pokes.

  Minutes dragged on as Ernie worked in silence, adding orange and yellow to the blurry black outline. Voices carried into the small room from out front, hinting at more customers. One wouldn’t dare come inside when she was half naked, would they? With his concern over her warmth, she’d accepted the idea of Ernie looking at her bare boobs from a professional standpoint, but she wasn’t liable to handle an audience so well. “Does it always take this long?”

  “You picked a decent-sized tat. Lotta color and detail.” He set the needle aside several minutes later and nodded. “All set. Looks good. Still not sure it’s right for you, but whadda I know?” He handed her a mirror.

  The tat looked like the same blurry blob of orange and black when reflected as it did when looking down at it. Smiling, she handed back the mirror. “It’s bright. Nice. I like it.”

  “That’s all that matters.” He applied a thin layer of ointment and then bandaged the area. Reaching to a small table loaded with ink and other supplies, he grabbed a sheet of paper and gave it to her. “This’ll tell you how to take care of it. That bandage should come off in a couple hours. After that, keep it exposed to the air and lotioned up good.”

  Joyce stopped scanning the instructions as his last words repeated in her head. She looked at him, incredulous. “You’re saying I can’t wear a bra, or even a shirt?” And just how the heck was she supposed to get home?

  “No bra for a bit. Loose shirts, like the one you wore in, are fine.”

  “What about sex?” Oh, gosh, had she really asked that? She turned her attention back on the instructions in the hopes Ernie wouldn’t detect her discomfort.

  “Sex is fine, just so long as your guy won’t be licking your tits too much. Too much moisture’ll ruin the tat.”

  He’d spoken crudely again, but in such a professional-sounding voice, she couldn’t even work up a blush. Maybe that’s all there was to using coarse language—doing it with the right tone. Storing away the information for later, Joyce stood and smiled. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Thanks for being patient with me.”

  “Come back any time and we’ll fix you up with a matching bike for the other side.”

  As she exited the room, she laughed at his joke, an obvious play on the fact that he thought she didn’t belong in a tattoo parlor getting a tat of any kind. A woman worked the front desk now—either that, or a man who looked like a woman through her poor vision. Joyce nodded at the person and then hurried out to her car.

  She slipped on her glasses, anxious to see the design as more than a vivid blur. Carefully, she peeled at the bandage. Color crested where once her breast had been pale white. Thick, black whiskers extended from the side of the cat’s head.

  Wait. She’d gotten a butterfly, not a cat.

  Frowning, she peeled the bandage down further. Two round circles tinted with pale yellow came into view. They weren’t the markings of a monarch, but the distinctive wheels of a bike. The front spokes circled her nipple. Headlights beamed toward the center of her cleavage. The air left Joyce’s mouth as a disbelieving gasp.

  Holy Hades! There was a Harley on her breast.

  Chapter O hadn’t gone so well, but Joyce wasn’t going to let it get her down. So she had
a Harley on her breast. That spoke of confidence, of independence…of being foolish enough not to wear her glasses when being branded for life.

  She wouldn’t be making that mistake twice. She’d picked up disposable contacts this morning and had even braved sticking her finger in her eyes to put them in. Glasses or no glasses, she could see, and that meant no more stupid moves.

  Joyce shook her head as she pulled into the light-brightened parking lot of Dusty’s Backroom Bar. No negative thoughts, only confidence. The last two days, she’d breezed through Chapter R, which entailed reading up on dirty talk and the latest words for male and female body parts, and was now on to Chapter G: Getting Your Man.

  She hadn’t planned on literally roping in her short-term lover. Since she’d opted to put her new personality to the test thirty miles outside of Atlanta, at a small country bar where she’d be unlikely to see anyone familiar, roping might well come into play.

  She opened the driver’s-side door of the canary-yellow Mustang she’d leased that morning. Stepping out, she surveyed the lot. For a Monday night, the place was busy. There had to be plenty of guys to choose from inside. And plenty of them would be looking at her. For once it wouldn’t be because she was dressed like a no-figure dud, but as a curvy, if not a bit on the short side, blonde poured into the smallest outfit she could find. The jeans skirt seemed to fit the bar’s theme. The snug navy tank top had been picked for the built-in cotton-shelf bra and the fact that it pushed more of her tat out than it held in. She’d do whatever it took to avoid going back under Ernie’s needle for touch-up work.

  Sticky air rife with cigarette smoke and loud twangy music assailed her as she cleared the bar’s front door. Conceited as it might be, she’d honestly expected everyone to stop what they were doing to look at her. Through the low lighting, a few patrons glanced her way, but most kept up with the dancing, chatting and pool shooting. Not feeling half so out of place as she’d guessed she would, Joyce stepped onto the hardwood floor and threaded her way through the crowd to the bar.

  She pulled out an empty stool centered between a group of laughing woman in business suits and an old man in a faded black Stetson. From his gnarled, tan skin to his worn jeans and boots, he looked like he might be a real cowboy.

  A big-haired brunette in a black T-shirt with DUSTY’S written in sparkling silver across her generous chest dropped a coaster on the bar in front of Joyce. She leaned on an elbow and smiled. “What’ll be, stranger?”

  The woman on Joyce’s left stopped laughing to nod at the bartender. “We need another round of Blow Jobs when you have a sec, Jen.”

  Blow jobs? For women? And they gave them sitting right at the bar?

  Joyce’s nerves stretched tight at the thought of everyone in the place watching as she received a blow job from a stranger. As much as he’d demanded it for himself, Rick hadn’t given her oral sex once in the two years they’d been married. He hadn’t even given her an orgasm outside of their first few times together, and they had hardly been ultimate. While she wasn’t one for skipping ahead, the next chapter in the book was Audience Participation, or, rather, the thrill of being watched while having sex. The idea had given her gooseflesh when she’d read about it, but it might not be so bad. Bad or good, she had to try it. The success of her assertive, sex-goddess status depended on it.

  She inclined her head at the woman, who’d resumed the animated conversation with her friends, and then at Jen. “I’ll start with what she ordered.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she attempted to get the words out. Heat tinged her cheeks. Remember, it’s all about attitude. She stuck out her chin. “I’d like a blow job, please.”

  Jen’s smile grew; amusement lit her eyes. “Don’t take it personally, hon, but you look more like a Cosmo girl to me.”

  Cosmo, Joyce knew. She’d read several issues just last night. But why was that relevant? Or was “Cosmo” more than a name for a magazine? Was it another kind of oral sex? Achieving the Ultimate Orgasm hadn’t said a thing about it.

  Remembering the way Ernie had tried to change her mind on the Harley tat for one from page twenty-four, which was likely where the butterflies and kittens frolicked, she nodded. “All right. I’ll try a Cosmo.”

  “It’s a good drink. Little fruity for my taste, but I think it’ll be perfect for yours.”

  The heat returned, pushing into Joyce’s cheeks full blast. She’d ordered a drink, not oral sex. What a dunce.

  Jen returned thirty seconds later, setting a large fluted glass filled with pink liquid in front of her, and cute little shot glasses of something cream-colored in front of the group of women at her left. Blow Jobs, Joyce realized, and felt twice as dim-witted.

  Wiping up with a white bar rag the liquor that had dribbled from the shot glasses, Jen said knowingly, “Let me guess, new to the area?”

  “No. Well, sort of.” Oh, who was she kidding? No matter what she wore and how many Harleys she stuck on her boobs, she wasn’t a sex goddess in-the-know and probably never would be. She frowned. “No negativity” was tonight’s theme, but darned if it wasn’t hard to follow. “Is it that obvious?”

  “This tends to be a locals bar. A stranger stands out.”

  It wasn’t her behavior that the other woman questioned—she just didn’t recognize her. Maybe there was hope yet. Maybe there was more than hope…if she could work up the nerve to voice the thoughts in her head.

  Joyce lifted the Cosmo to her lips and took a sip for courage. The taste was surprisingly sweet and went down easy. She took another sip, then pasted on her best confident face. “Do you know everyone here?”

  Jen glanced around the bar. “Yep, pretty much. Looking for someone?”

  Think attitude. Think assertive sex goddess. Oh, heck, just say the words already. “A short-term lover to worship me.”

  The bartender let out a robust laugh. “Aren’t we all, hon.” Her gaze returned to Joyce’s face, and something in Joyce’s expression must have hinted at her sincerity, as the woman sobered and asked, “What’s your taste? What kind of looks do it for you?”

  Rick had been blond with nearly black eyes, and, toward the end of their marriage, covered in a straggly beard. She wanted as far from that as possible. Taking a sip of her drink, Joyce scanned the dimly lit room. From their closeness and the intimate way they moved, most couples on the dance floor were either married or already planning to go home together. She continued on to the pool tables, coasted over a middle-aged redhead in a ball cap, moved on to a nice-looking guy who was far too blond, and then stopped abruptly on a tall, sandy-haired man with a golden-god tan.

  He bent over the corner table and drew back on his pool stick. Faded blue Levi’s pulled taut across his bottom, accentuating the play of a deliciously firm behind. He straightened to reveal a strong profile. Clean-shaven jawline. Nose with just a bit of a hook. The too-blond guy said something to him, and gentle laugh lines creased the corners of his mouth and eyes, making him look approachable yet sexy.

  Butterflies of lust flapped wildly in her belly while her heart pounded with excitement. Yes! It was him. “He’s nice.”

  “And unavailable,” Jen put in from behind her.

  The butterflies slowed. Dangit. She’d found her short-term lover and he was already taken.

  “Married?” Joyce asked, unable to take her attention away from the graceful flow of his long legs or the way the upper half of his arms corded with mouthwatering muscle as he sank a ball and proceeded to line up another shot.

  “Divorced, but not looking. Then again, you said you were only after a fling. Colin hasn’t been with a woman in some time that I’m aware of. He might be willing to let you pick him up.”

  The butterflies regained strength. She smiled widely. She had a chance, and she’d be darned if she wasn’t going to take it. Right after she had a couple more drinks.

  2

  “W hy don’t you go over there and say hi before she falls off her bar stool from the weight of all that dro
ol?”

  Colin Hart sank the 2 ball, then glanced up at Dusty Marr, his best friend since middle school and the owner of the bar. Though Colin had made it a point not to look directly at her, he knew whom his friend referenced. The hot blonde sitting backward on a stool at the bar, talking to Jen over her shoulder while she watched his every move. “Not my type,” he said absently.

  “Tight ass, nice legs and ripe tits that look ready to pop out of her shirt at any second.” Dusty snorted. “Yeah, man, she’s a real eyesore.”

  Colin leaned in for another shot, sinking the 5 in the corner pocket. “Too short.”

  “I bet you a beer you’re going to say she’s too blond next. I know you aren’t looking for love—hell, if you were after the way Marlene screwed you over, I’d kick your ass—but is there something wrong with letting your dick have a little fun?”

  Colin miscued his next shot when the word dick left the other man’s mouth. Not that he had a problem talking about his anatomy in public—he’d just made it a point to ignore his sexual urges since the day he’d caught his now–ex-wife screwing her boss. Considering he’d never been able to make her happy, the man had done him a favor. That didn’t mean Colin was ready to accept the past seven years as wasted time and move on to the first woman who sent fuck-me eyes his way.

  If Blondie was giving him those eyes purely for the sake of a one-night fling, that was all well and good. But if she had anything more on her mind, like hopping into his bed and staying there for the next fifty or sixty years, she could turn her attention elsewhere. Hell, if he was lucky, she already had.

  With Dusty preoccupied lining up his shot, Colin glanced toward the bar. Blondie was right where she’d been the last time he’d looked. Only now her tongue wasn’t in her mouth, but rimming her empty martini glass. The pink tip dipped into the center, thrusting toward the bottom, then jerking back to slip between her candy-apple-red lips. His cock hardened, pushing against the constraints of his zipper at the idea of her damp tongue tackling his body the same way. Only, she wouldn’t be thrusting into him, but wrapping that plump mouth around him and licking his shaft from tip to base.