Chapter 2 #2
"You’re really good," I say, just to fill the silence, just to make him look at me again.
"Thanks," he says without looking up.
"Do you draw all your own pieces?"
He nods. "Most of them."
I nod toward the sketchbook on the counter. "You have a favorite?"
A beat.
"Yeah."
"You gonna tell me what it is?"
"No."
I smile. "Mysterious, broody artist type. Got it."
That gets a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You want to tell me about your artwork?"
He means the tattoo.
I go still. Then shake my head. "No."
He doesn’t push. Just keeps working. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’re not saying.
The buzz, the music, the scratch of needle on skin… all of it folds into a rhythm that feels… intimate. Dangerous. Like we’re suspended outside of time, in a moment that doesn’t belong to the real world.
"So… what brought you to Coyote Glen?"
The question is simple. Casual. But the way he asks it, quiet, like he’s fishing without being obvious, makes my heart stutter in my chest.
I swallow hard.
"Visiting family."
I don’t know why I say that. It’s just… easier than the truth. I don’t want to get into the whole mess of my life right now.
He hums, like he’s not quite buying it, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his fingers move in steady, practiced strokes over my skin, doing something to the edge of my nerves.
"So, you traveling alone?"
Another simple question, but the undertone is there. He’s looking for something. Testing boundaries.
"Yeah," I reply, my heart hammering a little faster.
"Is that… good?" he asks, voice softer now, like he’s almost teasing. "You like being alone?"
I freeze for a moment, then force a casual tone. "I’m getting used to it."
I expect him to let it go.
But he doesn’t.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, like he’s considering something. When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and rough, his eyes flicking over to mine.
"I’m guessing you’re not in town for more than just a tattoo then… I mean, you didn’t walk in here just looking for a… distraction, did you?"
The way he says it makes the words feel like a confession. The tension between us crackles, the air too thick, too still.
My pulse kicks up again, but this time, I don’t know what’s making it race. The question or the way he’s watching me, like I’m not just some woman in his chair but something else.
I lick my lips. "Guess you could say I’m looking for a little bit of both."
His eyes narrow slightly, and for a second, I think he might push me further. But instead, his hand stills for just a heart beat. Then he takes a breath, like he’s swallowing something he didn’t want to say. "You just here to get away from everything?"
I glance away. "Maybe."
It feels like he’s testing me. Looking for a crack.
"So no boyfriend waiting for you back home, then?" he asks, almost casually, but there’s a weight in it that makes my heart skip.
I blink. "No boyfriend."
His gaze sharpens. "A husband?"
I laugh, the sound feeling raw and unsteady. "Not even close."
There’s a flicker in his eyes, relief, maybe, or something else I can’t name. Then, he leans in just a little closer, his breath warm against my neck again.
"You sure?" he murmurs, his lips barely brushing my skin.
I turn toward him, unable to stop myself. And suddenly, it’s like the world disappears. The questions. The air. Everything fades except the heat between us.
He must sense it too, because he pulls back just a fraction, that teasing smile still playing at the edges of his lips. His eyes are darker now, but there's something lighter in them too, like he's enjoying this little game we're playing.
"Careful," he says, the words low, but laced with amusement. "You’re lookin’ at me like you might kiss me."
I bite my lip, a laugh caught somewhere between nervous and frustrated. "Maybe I was just trying to figure out what you were thinking."
He leans back slightly, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of my chair as he studies me. His grin widens, but there's a subtle challenge in it, a dare.
"Well, if you’re trying to read my mind, you’re gonna need more than a second."
He’s playing with me now, the air between us thick with something unspoken, like we're both pretending we don’t want to go further, when we both know it’s only a matter of time.
When he finally finishes, he turns the chair so I can see my reflection in the mirror on the far wall.
The tattoo is… stunning.
The chrysanthemum curls across my shoulder blade, petals sharp and soft all at once, rising out of the ashes of a name I never want to see again. It’s bold. Beautiful. Defiant.
It doesn’t erase the past. It claims it.
I stare at it, unblinking.
Then I say, "Thank you."
My voice is hoarse. Wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
He pulls off his gloves with a soft snap and tosses them in the bin. Then, without a word he grabs a jar of ointment and shifts behind me again.
This time, it’s his skin against mine.
His fingers are warm now, the pads rougher than I expected, callused from hours of work, but his touch is slow. Careful. Intoxicating. He spreads the ointment over the fresh ink like he’s memorizing every line he just laid down.
And suddenly I can’t breathe.
I should be used to this part. I’ve had more tattoos than I can count, more hands on my body than I care to admit. But this is different.
This doesn’t feel like a tattoo artist tending to his work.
It feels like a man worshipping a wound.
His fingers glide just below the strap of my bra, pausing at the edge, like he’s asking permission without asking anything at all. My breath hitches, but I don’t move. I don’t stop him.
I want him to touch me.
He does. Barely. The backs of his knuckles skim the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder, and I swear lightning dances through my spine. My knees feel unsteady, even though I’m sitting down.
I let out a slow exhale, and his hand stills. Just for a second. Like he felt it too.
Like he knows.
My mouth goes dry. Heat blooms low in my belly, slow and molten. The kind of ache that’s got nothing to do with the tattoo.
I want to say something, anything. Deflect. Break the tension.
But the truth is, I don’t want to break it.
I want to burn in it.
His hand lingers on my back, thumb brushing over a piece of untouched skin in a way that feels far too personal for someone I don’t even know the name of.
I’m not sure who moves first, maybe we both lean in, but suddenly he’s close again. Closer than before. His mouth hovers near my ear, and I can feel the warm rush of his breath as he speaks.
"You okay?"
It’s not a casual question. Not the way he asks it. It’s low and quiet and laced with something else entirely.
Concern. Possession. Hunger, maybe.
I nod and swallow hard. "Yeah. Just…"
Just what? Just overwhelmed? Just wrecked by the way you’re touching me?
"Good," he says, and his voice is rougher now. Almost strained. He clears his throat. "I’ll wrap it."
But neither of us move.
The words hang in the air like a curtain neither of us wants to pull back. His eyes are on mine now, really on mine, and everything in them is heat. Slow, simmering, soul deep heat.
I should look away. I want to look away.
But I don’t.
Because something in the way he’s watching me makes it impossible. Like I’m a match, and he’s the one about to strike.
I shift slightly in the chair, trying to find air, trying to think, but then his hand brushes my shoulder again. Light. Careful.
And that’s all it takes.
I turn.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn me.
There’s no testing the waters this time…
His mouth crashes into mine like a question and an answer all at once, hot, demanding, desperate. His hand fists in the side of my shirt, dragging me closer as his mouth parts mine, and I melt.
There’s no space, no oxygen, no logic. Just the burn of his kiss and the way he groans low in his throat when I kiss him back just as hard.
He tastes like coffee and heat and something darker I can’t name. Like trouble. Like home.
I gasp when his hand slides up my spine, not quite touching the fresh tattoo but cradling me close, guiding me gently but firmly out of the chair and towards him.
And damn, he’s solid.
Muscle and restraint, a man made of tension just waiting to snap. His other hand finds my jaw, thumb sweeping the corner of my mouth as he deepens the kiss, like he’s been thinking about this too. Like he needs it as much as I do.
My fingers curl in the front of his shirt. I can’t get close enough. I want to climb into his skin. To lose myself. To forget everything except the feel of his mouth and the heat between us and the way he’s kissing me, like he’s been starving for it.
No one’s kissed me like this in a long time.
Maybe ever.
And it scares the hell out of me.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel numb or empty or half alive.
I feel wanted. Claimed. Unraveled.
This isn’t like me. Not even close.
But maybe that’s why it feels so fucking good.