Page 9 of Right Next Door (Stone Family #3)

While he works, I use the restroom, pop a hard candy in my mouth, then fill up a cup of water, anticipation making my fingers tremble.

By the time I’ve finished the water and have made my way back to Ian’s station, he’s wearing black rubber gloves, has his hair pulled back, and silver wire-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose.

God? It’s me again. Don’t take me just yet.

“All right?” he asks, and I nod jerkily, slipping onto the chair, wrapping my fingers around the arms in a white-knuckled grip. He notices and squeezes both of my wrists between his index fingers and thumbs, trying to loosen my hold. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. I’ll be gentle.”

I swallow the watermelon in my throat and release my hand so he can turn my left forearm up on the portable desk.

He has a towel set down and double-checks the position is comfortable for me then cleans and shaves the length of my inner arm, describing every step along the way.

“I’m going to put the stencil down.” He holds it over me, waiting for my direction.

“You want it as centered as possible, I’m guessing? ”

“Yes, please.”

He presses it on then strips the paper back to reveal the outline of the design. “Everything look good to you? You can check it out in the mirror if you want.”

I don’t need to. “It looks great.”

“Okay. I’m going to do the flowers first and then the words because that’ll take a little longer with the shading.” He tosses the paper away and spins on his stool for the gun. That’s when I close my eyes. “What music do you like?”

“Hozier, Sam Smith, Allison Russell,” I mumble, listing them off to forget about the needles soon to be piercing my skin.

A few seconds later, Hozier’s folksy music fills the space, and the hum of the tattoo gun starts. Ian places his hand near my wrist. “Try to stay relaxed and tell me if you need a break. The first touch will be a shock. Don’t hold your breath.”

I don’t move, every muscle and cord in my body still and tight.

“ Nicole .”

I open my eyes to find him staring at me. “Don’t hold your breath,” he directs again, and I didn’t realize I was. “Nice deep breaths, okay?”

I inhale deeply, blowing it out through my mouth.

“Good girl. Keep it up.”

I drop my head back against the rest, and then the needle is in my arm. I spasm in response, but with the way Ian’s holding me, I can’t move.

“It’s all downhill from here,” he murmurs, and I chance a glance at my arm. With his head bent over me, I don’t see much besides his hand moving, but I definitely feel the burning sensation as he inks me with his art.

A minute in, he asks, “Would it help to talk?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s like a hot knife cutting into my skin. “I don’t… I’m not sure I can form words at the moment.”

“Okay. Just keep breathing.”

Seconds lapse into minutes, and although I know it’s not true, it feels like I’ve been here for hours. I focus on inhaling, exhaling, and releasing the tight fist my fingers have made in my lap, but it’s difficult. Every single part of me is tense.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he says, “You’re doing so well. The outlining is the hardest part. I know.”

I let out a groan, and for a moment, he lifts the gun, but I don’t dare open my eyes.

“I’m sweating,” I mumble, and a few moments later, a fan turns on.

“Totally normal. It’s your body’s stress response.”

That makes me laugh, and I force my eyes open to watch him work—or what I can see of him working. Mainly the back of his head.

“You have a lot of sweaty women in your chair?”

“None I like as much as you.”

I work on unclenching my fingers, shaking them out. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m okay.”

He agrees with a hum. “Doing so good. I’m done with the flowers. Halfway there, baby.”

“You smell good,” I blurt, obviously delirious from pain.

“Thank you.” I hear a trace of amusement in his voice.

“Like paper,” I go on, feverish and babbling.

“When we get a box of new releases, they smell good, fresh, but I like worn paperbacks the best. How soft the paper is to touch, the spine cracked so many times some of the color is faded and chipped. It smells a little bit like freshly chopped wood and a little bit sweet like vanilla.”

He glances at me with a teasing glower. “Are you comparing me to old books?”

“No. You smell better.”

“Well then, I guess I don’t mind being compared to old books. Especially if they’re your favorite.” He shuts off the gun and swipes a damp paper towel over my forearm before spinning his stool away from me.

I peek at the work so far. My skin is red, but most of the tattoo is there. The flowers are whimsical, and the lettering is almost finished. It’s amazing, and it’s not even done.

When he turns back to me, he says, “I’m going to do some shading of the letters and a little bit in the flowers to give them depth, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You need a break?”

“No. I’m good.”

He holds my gaze, his dark eyes blazing behind his glasses. He doesn’t verbalize it, but I know he’s somehow pleased I’m not asking for a break. A buzz of satisfaction zings through me, and he starts up the gun again. This time, I’m expecting the first bite of the needle and hold still.

He rumbles his appreciation. “Good girl.”

The pain becomes more of a manageable sting as opposed to the sharp slicing sensation from before, but I think that’s only because of the lingering effects of Ian’s praise.

Even as I’m still sweating, my nipples pebble and tighten with each of his honeyed words. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just a little longer.”

I close my eyes and focus my mind on the feel of Ian’s hands instead of the press of the needle, and after only a few more minutes, he finishes, shutting off the gun. He drags his fingertip over my knuckles. “Take a look.”

I tip my chin down, viewing the beautiful new addition to my body.

“What do you think?”

I smile. “I love it.”

He cleans off my arm then sticks a clear adhesive over it, instructing me to leave it on for three days. He removes his gloves before plucking a small tube of Aquaphor from one of his drawers. “Use this, and try to keep it out of the sun while it’s healing.”

I check the time. It only took an hour. “That’s it?”

He holds his palm out to me, helping me to stand. “Do you want it to be?”

I know it’s innuendo. He’s offering up more than this tattoo.

And yet, I hesitate.

Ian sets his glasses down, keeping his eyes on me the whole time, patient and understanding. I’m not sure if it’s adrenaline or him, but yes, I want more.

I recall sitting with him at Sweet Cheeks and what he said about Bryce. “Fuck around and find out, right?”

His lips slant deliciously as his hands find my waist as if he’s done it thousands of times before. “Fuck right.”

And then his lips are on mine.