Page 3

My dick knocks at the zipper in my jeans when she grins a traffic-stopping smile.
Yeah, not happening, buddy.
When she pulls out the sheet of paper she was clutching for dear life earlier, I only just hold in a swear word. She wants a man’s name inked on her skin.
Don’t ask me why, but the thought ofanyman’s name on her skin that isn’t mine pisses me off, and considering we’ve only just met and have spent most of our confrontation defusing her callousness, simply having a thought like that irritates me even more.
After running my eyes over the guy’s name in thick black ink smack bang in the middle of the intricate design, I drop them to the blonde’s left hand. Upon noticing it is void of a ring—engagement or wedding—I lock my eyes back on hers. “Is this your father’s name?” I nudge my head to the tattoo design in my hand.
Lines indent her forehead before she shakes her head.
“Your grandfather? Brother? Deceased uncle? Any type of male relation?” When she shakes her head again, I say, “Sorry, Princess, I can’t do your tattoo.”
Her eyes slit more with every syllable I speak. “You just agreed to do it.”
“Yeah, so?” I shrug like backtracking is on my resume. “That was before you showed me the design.”
“What’s wrong with the design?” She crosses her arms before arching a perfectly manicured brow. “Nottackyenough for you?”
“There’s only onetackyperson in this tattoo parlor,Princess.” I draw out the word usually used as a term of endearment as if it is a derogative word instead. “It ain’t me.”
She huffs, her irritation growing by the second. She isn’t the only one annoyed. My cock’s thickness hasn’t lessened from her feistiness. It stiffens with every snarl she hits me with.
“Look. I want to get this tattoo done. You’re a tattoo artist. Do whatever you need to do to make this happen.”
I nudge my head to the piece of paper. “Are you giving me permission to make alterations to this design as I see fit?”
“Yes!” She throws her arms into the air. “Can we just get this done, then I can get back to?—”
“Prince Charming waiting for you in a crystal palace?” I turn my eyes to the clock on the wall displaying it is a little after eleven. “It’s okay, Princess, you still have a good fifty minutes before you’ll get turned back into poor, defenseless Cinderella.”
She glares at me with shock all over her face.
Of course, a real-life princess wouldn’t understand a fairy tale.
When I head to the drawing board to transfer her design onto tracing paper before adding the change I require to feel comfortable tattooing a lifetime commitment onto her no-doubt virgin skin, she stands to the side, glaring at me while swiveling her diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist.
Once I’m happy with the design, I amble back her way. “I’ve altered the design?—”
“Yes, yes, whatever,” she interrupts, her tone obnoxious.
With a tight jaw, I place the tattoo contract and a copy of the newly designed trace onto the glass cabinet in front of her. “If you’re happy with the design, sign here, here, and here.” I point to each section of the contract she’s required to sign.
Snatching the pen out of my grasp, she signs each section in a frenzied hurry. After storing the contract in the locked drawer under the cash register, I gesture for her to follow me. As we walk through Inked, her eyes bounce in all directions, strengthening my assumption that this is her first tattoo.
The width of her pupils increases when we enter a private cubicle at the back of the shop. When she spots my tattoo gun sitting on a sterilized stainless-steel table, her face pales.
After closing the door behind me, I ask, “Where do you want your tattoo?”
Heat creeps across her cheeks before she points to her lower right hipbone.
“Then you’re gonna need to remove your jeans,” I advise before moving to the station to set up my instruments.
When her eyes snap to mine, wordlessly demanding clarification of my request, I nod.
I might be a fucking great tattoo artist, but I’m not a miracle worker.
She hesitates for a moment before doing as instructed. I’m not at all surprised to discover she’s wearing a pair of panties I’ve only seen in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs Charity peruses during her lunch break.