“You’re so damn pretty, Scarlett,” he told me quietly. His eyes held the conviction his voice showed.

Rather than betray my haywire feelings by replying, I instead asked, “This sitting where you want?” I nodded to his ribs; even I could hear the breathless way my words came out.

The hand holding my tattoo gun came down gently to his skin, the vibrations added to the familiar feelings that always came with inking someone coursed through my body. Something about the buzz of my machine, the lines, the patterns, the curves in every piece of work I permanently made on skin, the power in my hands to make or break a tattoo in one single movement of my wrist, oddly left me with a sense of controlled calm. I would slip into a zone where I concentrated on nothing but the ink and my canvas. The moment a customer sat down before me, they became another of my masterpieces. Whether it was a small piece, a half of their arm or their entire back, it mattered no less to me. Skin and ink, ink on skin: it was my life, my love, my passion. Every little bit of my art deserved my undivided attention and the utmost care.

Mace’s skin was a shocking contrast under my hands; rock hard muscles which I was positive he worked hard to maintain, covered with perfectly smooth soft skin, teamed with a scar or two; the only things marring his complexion. His body was stunning, a work of art on its own, with masculinity that could take your breath away. A body like his was worth waiting to work on, images that would come together perfectly flashed through my mind; there were so many things I’d like to do to his body and not all of them were done with ink.

Mace had chosen a memorial tattoo to honor his late father; he explained a few things he wanted, leaving me to draw it up for him. It was gorgeous, complex and very fitting. Hector, Mace’s father, had grown roses most of his life; it was one of his many passions. A large black and grey scale cross that started under his arm and ran almost the entire length of his ribs was intricately wrapped in a rose bush featuring three vibrant red roses, all in different states of bloom, representing different things. The first in full bloom for the full life he had lived, the second wilted, though still bright with petals falling from it for the loss of his life cut so short, and the third a closed rosebud signifying the life events he would miss not being here, his children growing, falling in love, starting families of their own. Underneath this, a tiny little child’s hand held gently by a protective masculine one. This part I didn’t quite understand. I did gather it was of strong importance and Mace hadn’t seemed eager to explain, so I left it alone.

Four long hours later, I took one last swipe of his ribcage with paper towel to remove the excess ink; the result was jaw dropping. Your own work is always the hardest to critique; however, this piece was breathtaking and made me a little bit proud. I reached over him, grabbed my camera from the shelf against the wall and asked, “You mind if I take a few photos?”

“Knock yourself out, babe” His voice sent chills down my spine, the man had a fucking awesome voice, all dark and rumbling. It was like sex, covered in chocolate, decadent and so very bad for you, but so good you couldn’t deny yourself any of it, just like the rest of him.

“I’m just going to put some tattoo cream on it and wrap you up. You know the drill, yeah? Take the covering off in an hour, wash it with warm antibacterial soap and pat it dry with a soft towel.” He just stared up at me with hooded eyes making my breath hitch. I started smearing the cream across his ribcage as I was talking, concentrating hard so as not to look at his face. Usually, I was all business when inking somebody, but having my hands on Mace affected me like nothing else. Feeling his steady heartbeat under my fingertips, the pure power that radiated off him, couldn’t be missed. There was something so erotic about my hands marking his skin. I was so turned on by then I could barely stop myself from licking him head to toe. “Make sure you keep applying the cream, morning and night until it’s completely healed. Don’t scratch or rub at it and try not to stretch the skin.”

My fingers tingled every time they swept over the taut skin of his side, my nipples already hard peaks brushing against the cotton of my dress with even the slightest movement, my core muscles clenching with want, panties drenched. Mace had such an effect on me, his mere presence and the feeling of his watching my every move made me crazy with lust.

Trying to be some kind of professional and not wanting to rip his clothes off and pounce on him in the middle of my very sterile shop, I turned away mentally shaking my head to clear the dirty thoughts running through it. I bent to retrieve the roll of plastic wrap from the bottom drawer in my rolling table. As I stood, Mace’s large hands gripped my hips and pulled me back into his body. He’d sat up on the table; I could feel his choppy breathing brushing across my neck and back, making my control slip just a little further. My back to his front, I could feel his racing heartbeat as his fingers gripped harder into my hips.

“If I don’t taste you soon, Scar, I think I might go out of my mind.” His gravelly voice came close to my ear, sending an involuntary shiver through me. Mace’s lips came down gently just behind my ear. I felt rather than heard his deep inhale. “You always smell sweet, like cherries.”

My pulse picking up speed at his hushed words, I murmured, “It’s my body wash.” Was I mentally challenged? That was the only thing that came to mind. He’d once again scrambled my brain with a touch and a few words.

God damn him!

“Mace, I need to wrap your side.” Mace of course ignored me, his hands roaming up my thighs painfully slow. When one hand reached the apex of my thighs, brushing across my soaked panties, a whimper escaped my parted lips.

Mace groaned deeply from his chest. “So damn wet for me, baby. I need to taste you right now.”

“We shouldn’t do this here,” I spoke, not sure who I was trying to convince.

His fingers moved my panties across, and one of his long thick digits parted my folds, swirling the evidence of my arousal around my clit in a torturously slow circle. “Mace,” I whispered, not sure if I wanted him to stop or give me more. The moment his hand left my aching sex, his finger went to his mouth tasting my wetness. My body vetoed my brain and went with “hell fucking yes, more baby more”.

“I’m gonna take you right here on this table, Scar, so every time you’re sitting here working, all you’ll be able to think about is coming apart on my mouth. Me fucking you hard, you screaming for me.” His words tore a moan from my throat. “You want that don’t you, Scar? You want me to drive my cock into you right here on this table.”

“Please, Mace, please, I need it, now,” I begged, panting, squirming to relieve some of the aching between my legs.

Mace abruptly stood, coming around behind me and spinning me so I was facing the table with him behind me. “Bend over the table.” The commanding voice he used sent an electric jolt straight to my pussy as he put his hand on my back, one at my waist, and bent me over, chest down to the red leather-covered tattoo table. He lifted my sundress and ripped my panties clean off, causing a flood of arousal from me. I was so turned on I couldn’t think straight. I just needed him. I needed to come. Somewhere in the back of my lust-dazed mind, I realized we were about to have sex in my shop, not the most hygienic activity, but I just couldn’t bring myself to give a damn.

Mace’s fingers invaded my aching pussy fast and hard, his other hand running slowly up and down my ass cheek. I became frustrated; he had two of his glorious fingers inside me perfectly still, not moving, I needed him to move like I needed to breathe.

Taking matters into my own hands, I started rocking my hips gently back and forward, even the slightest movement causing heat to bloom all across my body. Moaning and rocking, I started to move a little faster, Mace still running his hand across my backside. “That’s it, baby, ride my fingers.” His voice was heavy with desire.

Mace reached up under the front of my dress and pinched one pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger; at the same time, he made a come hither motion with the two fingers he had inside of me. “Oh, fuck, Mace, I’m—I…Oh…” I lost the ability to speak, my body afire, what threatened to be an all-consuming orgasm barreling toward me.

Mace moaned deep, his hand coming back to my ass as my walls started to contract. Rocking back and forth faster and harder, a quick sting came across my backside.

He’d spanked me. I’d never been spanked before. Holy shit, that was good; it was enough to send me free falling over the cliff into an orgasm like never before. Shouting out my release and stilling, Mace suddenly filled me with his thick cock, slamming in, prolonging the shudders wracking my body.

Sweet heaven above, I think I might black out.

Mace pumped hard and fast gripping my hips as I used the edge of the table as leverage, pushing myself back into his groin, meeting him thrust for thrust. Another orgasm tore through me as Mace thrust deep one more time and stilled, his cock jerking inside me as he came. Collapsing over me, one shaking forearm holding him up so as not to squash me, he groaned.

As my pulse slowed and my breathing returned to normal, thoughts rushed at me. I’d been spanked, never in my life had I been handled with such raw need and power during sex, and I fucking loved it. Mace knew what he was doing. He knew what he liked, and even more so, he seemed to be in tune with what I needed even if I didn’t. He reached over, grabbed some tissues cleaning us up before pulling us both up onto the table. Tucking me into the side of him, with my head on his chest, his large muscled arm wrapped around my body and minding his new tattoo, I asked, “Did you hurt it?”

“Nah, it’s good.”

Lying in the aftermath of explosive sex with Mace somehow felt very right. My defenses crumbled even more as he held me in his arms running his hand slowly up and down my arm. If I was being honest, I really liked it—maybe too much.

Ah, shit.

My fingers running lightly over the intricate tribal ink of his chest, I’d not had time to study his previous artwork in the heat of the moment.

My hand stilled, running back over the black ink along his chest; something looked vaguely familiar about the lines and curves of his tattoo

Wait...was that? My fingers moved again, my eyes following their movements.

Spelling out the letters, he stilled, his body turning to stone when he realized I’d seen it.

A name, directly over his heart, how could I not have seen that? It was so intricately woven within the borders of the tattoo, you’d have to study it closely to see it.

Belle.

Who the hell is Belle?

Chapter Eleven

She saw it. I had hoped she wouldn’t, but I should have known better. Scarlett was a tattoo artist for shits sake; it was her job to see what others didn’t. I didn’t know how to explain this to her. I didn’t know how to tell her about Belle. How did you tell the person you’re falling for about the only girl who’s even been in your heart?

I’d just broken through; she just started opening up a little, and then I couldn’t resist my sudden and strange urge to fucking hold her. I wanted her to know about my life, about my commitments. I wanted her to know me. That couldn’t happen unless I was honest with her. Though that right there was the catch. If Scarlett knew about Belle, she’d run a mile. I was sure of it. I wouldn’t expect nor ask her to stay once she knew the truth. One thing I had never been and never would be was a liar. I decided that if she asked, then I would tell. Just thinking about Scar walking away from me struck a pain in my chest and made my stomach knot up. I was into this girl more than I thought.