Chapter Four
J ocelyn replaced the lid on her half-eaten lasagna and slid it into the bag with the rest of the extra food, keeping her movements quiet to avoid breaking Birch’s concentration.
His eyes were narrowed and focused with laser precision on a sketchpad while a woman she vaguely recognized sat tight to Birch. The brunette was around her own age, petite and delicate and inching closer and closer to Birch, her attention divided between him and the drawing he was altering for her.
With the exception of a few quick smiles her way, he’d ignored her for the most part, all business the moment his client walked through the door.
It was an interesting peek into his personality.
Birch was nothing like the men she typically dated, their tailored suits and custom cufflinks a far cry from his faded jeans and department store t-shirt. Her former lovers were all cut from the same high-end cloth, woven with silk thread and made sleek with a dash of snake oil. They were confident and bold, their eyes on the prize and their tongues dipped in silver.
She doubted Birch would taste anywhere near as metallic and bloodthirsty as they did.
For her part, she struggled not to feel like a voyeur while the two discussed where the tattoo would be placed when she came in next week. Holding a copy of the completed art up, Birch went over the pros and cons of each location while the woman exposed her skin bit by bit, insisting he smooth the paper against her skin so she could get a better idea of the finished result. When she was satisfied with her choice, he scheduled her in for two sessions, gave her a rundown of what to expect, and walked her outside, standing in the doorway and waiting to ensure she got to her car.
Locking up, he ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the time. “Sorry about that. First-timers sometimes go over their hour.”
She passed him what was left of his dinner as he walked back to his desk. “Don’t apologize for being thorough,” she chastised, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. “Are you always this professional or were you on your best behavior because you had an audience?”
He examined his wilting salad and tossed it in the trash. “I was totally trying to impress you.” Grabbing his keys from the top of the filing cabinet, he stood. “You want to head out somewhere for a bit or are you ready to call it a day?”
“You run a decent business,” she said slowly, slipping her heels on. “But you’re letting sale opportunities slip through your fingers.” Extending her arms, she turned slowly on the spot. “If I was to ask for a tattoo, where would you recommend that I put it?”
He didn’t move for a moment, his eyes traveling down her body before he cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I guess it depends on how big a piece you’d be looking at.”
“This big,” she replied, touching her thumb to her pointer finger, studying his eyes as they flickered between hunger and uncertainty. Walking past him to the full-length mirror at the back of the shop, she stopped and waited, using the reflection to track his gaze as it moved over her. When he stayed at his desk, keys still tight in hand, she smiled. “Birch. Sell me on the idea of a tattoo.”
Nodding, he set his keys down and strode over to her, his eyes darkening. “If you came to me looking for recommendations, the most obvious place would be here,” he said, pressing his fingers to her upper arm with an almost clinical detachment. “And I’d show you pieces that weren’t linear. Ones we could adapt to show off your muscle tone.”
Pretending to contemplate his suggestion, she shook her head. “Too common.”
“Alright. That eliminates my next suggestion, too.” He ghosted his fingertips over her left shoulder blade. “Not ideal for a first-timer because of the pain factor, but good for hiding at work and easy to show off in that jogging tank you had on this morning.”
Reaching back, she eased his other hand up along her ribcage and held it below her collarbone. “Is this a popular site?”
He took a deep breath as he lowered his forehead to the back of her head for a moment. “Very.” Trailing his thumb between her breasts, he stopped at her sternum. “With the right design, one here would be insanely hot.”
His free hand gripped her hip and her breathed hitched. “There?”
“Not my favorite, but you could pull it off.”
Turning her head into the crook of his neck she arched her back, pressing her ass against his hard length. “Show me your favorite.”
He took a step back and she almost whimpered at the loss of his heat until she felt his hand slide up the back of her shirt, pausing at the base of her neck. “Right here,” he murmured in her ear, and she closed her eyes, his gravelly voice sending shivers through her. “A simple black ink design starting here.” His fingers grazed along her spine at an agonizing pace, slipping under the band of her thong to rest on her tailbone. “And ending here.”
She bit her lip and opened her eyes, meeting his in the mirror. Then she walked past him without looking back. “I’m a visual learner. You’re going to need to show me to convince me.”
“Jocelyn, I—”
His next words died on his tongue as she closed the blinds on the door and turned, pulling her shirt off. “You have a pen and you need to use it to sell me your skill.” When his eyes drifted to her chest, she put her hands on her hips and smirked. “Mark me, Birch Baker. And remember to be professional.”
*
Birch had stood at the crossroads of many decisions over the course of his life. He’d taken dozens of calculated risks, accepted the consequences, and taken his beatings to ensure he survived long enough to see his brothers make it out.
But as Jocelyn strode past him in her sky-high heels and dropped her shirt on his desk, he had a feeling that this fork in the road would finally succeed at doing what Epson had tried to do over the years: Destroy him.
Mark me, Birch Baker.
And remember to be professional.
Exhaling, he tugged open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and picked up an unused stenciling marker, unwrapping it slowly to buy himself enough time to get his raging hard-on under control before conceding defeat. “Okay, Ms. Carter. I’m going to get that chair reclined and we can get started.”
Quality client chairs were one of his must-haves when he and Ryder opened Serpent’s Tongue. The sleek electric models he ordered did everything he needed with the press of a button, something he hadn’t fully appreciated until this moment, while his hands shook under Jocelyn’s steel gaze.
Pulling up his rolling stool, he passed her a crisp white towel. “I’m going to need you to take off—uh—I’ll need unimpeded access to your spine.”
In his peripheral, he could see her lips purse as she fought back a smile. “Of course.”
He angled his head to avoid staring while she removed her bra, distracting himself with a rough sketch on the back of a bill pad. “The chair can be cold, so you might want to put the towel down before you get on your stomach.”
“I’m ready, Mr. Baker.”
Spinning around, he froze, his pen dropping to the floor.
Forget the red lace bra hanging on the coat hook beside his worn leather jacket. Forget the black stilettos still on her feet, making her long, lean legs look even sexier. Hell, he could even get past the crimson thong peeking out over the band of the pants she had folded over to ensure he could reach her tailbone.
But the way she was draped across his chair, completely relaxed and ready for him?
Holy hell, he was in over his head.
She was on her stomach, her hands folded under her cheek as she studied him, lips parted and blonde hair splayed over the black headrest. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the swell of her breasts against the white towel, or the sensual sway of her bare back, the faint tan lines from a bikini sending his thoughts down a whole other rabbit hole.
“I think you’ll need that.” She smiled as she glanced at the pen at his feet. “Any last instructions?”
Snapping out of his daze, he picked up the pen, grabbed a pair of disposable gloves, and rolled to her side. “Just, uh, stay as still as you can and if you do need to move, give me a heads up.” Reaching over to grab the MP3 player he kept on hand, he passed it to her. “Anyone going under my gun, or pen in this case, plays DJ.”
He tugged his gloves on and pumped the foot pedal to raise his own seat, the simple routine preparations helping to cool his ignited libido.
And remember to be professional.
He’d done a few pre-drawings before for clients who weren’t wholly certain what they wanted. This was no different. Just a black pen and some skin.
Checking for any subtle curvatures he would need to account for, he ran a gloved finger down the length of her spine, looking to the ceiling for strength when she sighed and her hips lifted a fraction.
Yup. No different than usual. Just pen and ink and Jocelyn Carter’s ass pressed against his palm.
Uncapping the pen, he inched his chair in close while one of his old playlists crackled to life through the speakers. He steadied his nerves with a deep breath and brushed her hair aside, making the first strokes of the design at the base of her neck. As the image took shape, his mind finally entered work mode, the smooth expanse of Jocelyn’s back simply a perfect canvas.
Inch by inch he worked his way down her spine, lying to himself with every stroke.
Professional.
It was completely professional.
She was the ideal client, calm and still under his hands. His pen moved fluidly over her soft skin, her subtle reactions to its motions keeping him wholly in the moment. Short, feathered strokes brought about a hitch her breathing, the longer ones drawing soft moans barely audible over the music. Every so often he would pause to view his work and she would open one eye lazily, giving him a content smile before she’d relax again.
Completely. Professional.
The thin latex barrier of his gloves became a torture every time he touched her, dulling the feel of her enough to tease him but not enough to hide the heat of her flawless skin. If he ignored the fact that it was probably the most intimate experience he’d ever had with a woman, he could almost believe he had risen to her challenge.
But the pounding of his heart in his chest and the pressure of his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans were telltale signs he had definitely failed to keep it strictly business.
Adjusting his chair, he rolled further down her body to the last stretch, swallowing as he eyed the red band of her thong. “I’m going to need you to slide this down a bit,” he said, tapping the fabric on her hip with the back of his hand.
She groaned and stretched out like a cat before sliding her hands down her sides and hooking her thumbs into the elastic. Her hips rose up, her back arching with a sexuality so intense he had to dig the tip of the pen into his thigh to center himself as the desire to mount her and fuck her senseless barreled through him.
“This better?”
“For the drawing, yeah,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “You’re kind of testing the strength of my professionalism, though.”
Her lips turned up and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to envision the final stretch of the piece before he made a move he would definitely regret.
*
Jocelyn glanced over her shoulder and watched Birch as he sat motionless on his stool, his eyes locked on her lower back.
He was right when he said people would talk after seeing them together. Her phone buzzed all afternoon, old girlfriends touching base with conventional welcome backs before they dove right into Birch Baker.
Did she know who he was?
Did she remember his family?
And, most importantly, was she fucking him?
Because apparently Birch Baker and his sizable cock had cut a swath through Epson over the years. And from the sounds of it, there wasn’t a single conquest who wouldn’t go back for more.
If you’re going to go slumming, those Baker boys are the ones to ride into the gutter, one of her friends had messaged, a series of emojis punctuating her point.
It weighed on her, the flippant way those women she’d known for years dismissed him as little more than a walk on the wild side, a fun distraction. Because although she definitely wanted to take this particular Baker for a spin, what she already knew about him made her want to know more, made her want to break through the wall stilling his hand and silencing his tongue.
It made her hungry for a taste of a man who wouldn’t use her for her connections, who had nothing to gain by having her on his arm. And that hunger was making her bolder than she should be, no matter how right it felt to have his pen marking her skin.
The seconds ticked by, the heavy bass of the music filling the room as he swallowed and got back to work. His pen feathered over her, and she inhaled sharply while he cursed under his breath.
“Did you make a mistake?” she smiled.
“No, and I don’t intend to.”
The next ten minutes were sweet torture as he worked along her tailbone. With his forearm resting on her ass, she could feel the flex of his muscles as his pen danced across her skin. Each breath he took pressed his body against her thighs, every subtle shift keeping her body tuned in to his movements.
His pen lifted from her and for a deliciously excruciating moment, she thought he might make the move she was waiting for.
Until she heard the scrape of his chair’s wheels move away from her, followed by the unmistakable sound of latex gloves snapping off.
“Looks good,” he stated. “Why don’t I give you a minute to check it out before I walk you to your car?”