Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Ivy
His fingers tighten slightly against my jaw as he pulls back a little, like he’s waiting for me to come to my senses. Like he expects me to pull back, apologize, run.
But I don’t move.
Neither does he.
I’m still perched on the edge of the tattoo chair, warm leather beneath my thighs, pulse pounding between my legs. His eyes flick from the fresh ink to the edge of my bra strap, to the way my lips part like I might say something… or beg.
And then I move.
I reach up and pull my shirt the rest of the way off.
What the hell am I doing?
This isn’t like me. Not at all.
But it just feels so… right.
His gaze drags down my body like a physical touch, slow and possessive. Not a single word from him. Just that look, like he’s already stripping away the pieces of me I thought I’d buried.
I don’t know who closes the distance again. All I know is one second I’m sitting there, trembling and raw, and the next I’m wrapped in the heat of him, mouth crushed to mine in a kiss that feels like punishment and prayer all at once.
He tastes like smoke and whiskey. His hands are everywhere, sliding up my sides, gripping my thighs, tugging me closer until I feel the bulge of him pressing against me through his jeans.
"Fuck," I gasp against his mouth."This is stupid."
"Yeah," he growls. "Say stop."
I don’t.
Instead, I reach between us and drag his shirt up and over his head too.
He’s inked everywhere… chest, shoulders, ribs.
A body built like sin and sketched by gods.
I press my palms to his chest, feel the heat of him, the thrum of his heart.
His hand finds the back of my neck and tugs just hard enough to make my breath hitch.
I like it. Someone help me, I want more of it.
When he lifts me, I wrap my legs around his waist without hesitation. He sets me down straddling the tattoo chair, knees spread, leather creaking beneath me. The position forces me open, thighs wide, pelvis tilted. Exposed.
He steps back, just for a second, eyes dragging down my body like he owns it now.
"You want this?" he asks, voice hoarse. "You want to be fucked right here like a filthy little secret?"
A bolt of heat shoots through me so fast it makes me dizzy.
"Yes," I whisper. "Please."
That’s all it takes.
As he drops to his knees, and the shift in position sends a jolt through me.
The sudden snap of fabric being torn away leaves a rush of cold air, sharp against my skin.
It’s like the room’s temperature drops, a contrast to the heat pooling between my legs.
The chill feels almost cruel, naked, exposed, and my body responds with a shudder, instinctively seeking warmth.
And then, his mouth. It's a shock, hot and urgent, as if he’s starved for me, claiming every inch with an almost brutal intensity.
His lips are soft at first, but the pressure builds quickly, demanding, possessive.
His tongue moves against me, the wet warmth of it slick and deep, making me gasp as it swirls, teasing, then plunging.
There’s a hunger to the way he touches me. Rough, but in a way that makes my skin burn and my muscles tighten in a delicious, aching pull.
His breath is hot against my skin, the rhythm of it syncing with the pounding of my heart. I can feel every vibration when he groans against me, low and guttural, like it’s a part of him I’m tasting too, and it only makes me ache for more.
My body trembles, caught between the burn of desire and the sweetness of relief. The world narrows to the slick drag of his mouth, the steady rhythm of his tongue, the pulse of the air against my flushed skin. Everything else—everything outside of him, outside of this… feels like it’s disappearing.
I cry out, hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he eats me like a man starving. Tongue thrusting, lips sealing around my clit, sucking in time with the curl of his fingers sliding deep inside me. I’m already so wet, slick and aching, and the obscene sounds only make it worse.
"Fuck, yes, don’t stop…"
He moans against me, and the vibration shatters something deep inside. My head tips back, spine arching, hips grinding shamelessly against his face. I can’t stop. My body’s out of my control, chasing that edge like a junkie, riding his mouth like it’s the only truth left in the world.
I break apart with a scream I barely recognize as my own.
The sound tears from my throat, raw, involuntary, like my body’s the one speaking now, not me.
My vision blurs. My thighs are trembling so hard I can't keep them steady on the leather. My fingers dig into the armrests like they’re the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
My core pulses around his mouth, muscles clenching in tight, uncontrollable waves as pleasure ricochets through me, relentless and bright and brutal.
It’s too much. Too fast. Too deep.
My breath hitches in my chest, then shatters out in a broken sob of shock and ecstasy. I didn’t know I could come like that… from someone’s mouth. From someone’s mouth I met less than an hour ago.
I don’t even know his name.
The thought crashes into me like cold water, but it doesn’t make me stop. It makes me burn hotter.
I feel split open, like he’s reached into something I didn’t know was locked and ripped it wide with nothing but his tongue and the kind of ruthless focus that says he’s done this before. A man who knows how to make someone come undone.
My hands slide up to my chest, fingers trembling as I try to catch my breath. I can still feel him between my thighs, licking me through it, groaning like he’s savoring every last wave I give him.
He doesn’t stop until I jerk from the overstimulation, a strangled sound escaping my throat. Only then does he pull back, breath hot against my skin, mouth wet with me.
I’m gasping. Floating. Disoriented.
What the fuck was that?
My pulse is a drum beat in my ears. My skin is flushed, sweat slick.
My knees threaten to give out entirely. My underwear is somewhere on the floor.
And I’m sitting here in a stranger’s tattoo shop, skin still stinging with fresh ink, thighs still open, completely wrecked by a man whose name I don’t even know.
And I’ve never felt more alive.
His hands are still on me. One on my thigh, firm and steady. The other slides up my spine, callused fingers tracing the edge of the bandage covering my new tattoo like he’s sealing it with a promise.
I shudder, still riding the aftershocks, and finally manage to lift my head, eyes glassy, lips parted.
I stare at him like he’s something unreal.
Like all of this is just a dream.
Because this isn’t me. I don’t come in strangers’ chairs. I don’t let men touch me like they already know what I sound like when I fall apart. I don’t melt just because someone smells like leather and ink and sin.
But here I am. Boneless. Wrecked. Wanting more.
He stands, looming over me, breathing hard, his pupils blown wide as he looks at me like he wants to eat me alive.
And in that quiet, ruinous second, one thought lodges hard and hot in the center of my mind:
If this is what losing control feels like…
I don’t ever want to be in charge again.
"Turn around," he says, voice dark.
My pulse spikes.
He steps back, and I slide off the chair and spin to face the mirror on the far wall, gripping the armrests for balance. The angle shows me everything. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with need.
He comes up behind me and runs his hand up the back of my thigh, dragging it over the curve of my ass. Then he pushes into me in one brutal, perfect thrust.
I nearly collapse .
He’s thick. Hard. Filling me so deep I swear I can feel him in my chest. I clench around him and he swears, low and vicious, hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll feel the bruises tomorrow.
Good.
I pant, biting my bottom lip to keep from sobbing. "Fuck, you feel… so… deep…"
He fucks me harder. Faster. Each thrust rocks the chair, the mirror, the entire damn room.
I catch my own reflection, lips parted, mascara smudged, sweat slicked skin, and his body behind mine, mouth at my neck, hand creeping up between my breasts.
"Touch yourself," he rasps. "I want to see you fall apart again."
I obey.
Fingers sliding between my legs, circling my clit in desperate, clumsy swipes until I’m pulsing around him, crying out again, and this time he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, into it, past it… until I’m trembling so hard I can’t stand up.
He follows with a curse and a groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into me with one final, brutal thrust.
The room goes silent except for our breathing. Ragged, uneven, completely unhinged.
I slump forward over the chair, heart racing, skin slick with sweat. He steadies me with one hand at the small of my back, like he can feel me shaking.
We don’t speak.
Not yet.
The only sound is the soft whine of the tattoo machine still cooling beside us, the faint music drifting in from the front room, and the way we both try, and fail, to catch our breath.
Whatever this just was, I know one thing for certain:
I’m never going to forget it.