Page 98 of Inked Desires

“It hurts, but… I can handle it,” he breathes.

My heart clenches. I’m proud of him. Andrew is the bravest person I know. He stares his fears down without flinching, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

“I knew you could do it,” I say, genuinely proud.

He’d be the perfect client for a tattoo apprentice—no flinching, no twitching. He makes my work smooth as silk.

Hours pass. He lets me work in peace, without interruption or even asking for a break.

Finally, I shut off the machine and clean his back one last time.

“All done,” I tell him.

He exhales deeply and stretches, his neck cracking alarmingly. I pull off my gloves and step closer, gently massaging his tense shoulders, carefully avoiding the freshly inked area.

A low moan of pleasure escapes him, and the sound resonates through me like an invitation. If his skin weren’t so raw, I’d already have flipped him over on the table and picked up right where we left off. I’d take him apart, make him come undone before even touching him with my tongue.

“You alright?”

Beneath my hands, he nods slowly, then lifts his head.

“Thanks. Can I see it?” he asks, his voice a little brighter.

I step down from the table and offer him my hand. He takes it with a soft smile, and I lead him toward the mirror. Before I turn him toward his reflection, I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

“Look,” I whisper.

But his eyes stay locked on mine. Then, after a long, hesitant pause, he finally turns his head… and freezes.

Shit.

He hates it.

I was sure he’d love it. He’d approved the sketch—so why the look on his face now?

“The scar…” he whispers, visibly shaken.

He’s talking about the iron burn.

I gently rest my hands on his shoulders.

“I designed this piece to cover your scars. So you wouldn’t have to carry that memory on your skin anymore,” I explain.

“This tattoo… it was really for me?”

“Yes.”

His lips part. His throat tightens. Tears shimmer at the corners of his eyes. He raises a hand, but before his fingers can brush the fresh ink, I catch his wrist carefully.

“Stop. It needs to heal first. Let me take care of it,” I say, stopping him gently.

He turns his head slightly, slips free of my grip… then suddenly throws himself into my arms.

“Thank you! I hated that thing on my back and now… now it’s gone!” he exclaims, voice trembling with emotion.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

“You’re sure you like it?”