27. Hailey
When we walk into the back room of the parlor, everything is sterilized and ready to go, except my tattoo artist. He’s nowhere to be seen. Usually, he greets me out front and walks me back, but today, the receptionist led me and Arlo into the room. We stand there, slightly awkwardly. As if we don’t know what to do with ourselves.
It’s probably just me.
I should probably excuse myself to the bathroom to check my makeup, hair, and outfit, but I don’t want to leave Arlo’s side. It’s as if there’s a magnet drawing me to him.
“Do I look okay?” I whisper.
“No,” he answers quickly. My eyes go wide, and my jaw is about to hit the floor, wondering what horror story my face tells anyone brave enough to look, then he winks. “You look like a walking wet dream.”
I cover my stupid grin with my hand.
“Sorry, I’m running behind, sweetcakes.” My tattoo artist barrels through the door, looking down as he wipes water droplets from his thick, tatted hands and forearms. “You caught me by surprise. I haven’t gotten my claws on you in a while.”
My stomach bottoms out at the endearment. My gaze flies to Arlo to gauge his reaction. When the oaf continues to talk without reading the room, I wait for the earth to crack open and swallow me whole.
Instead of cracking, the world stops turning for half a second. Arlo’s shoulders are low. His fingers are loose. There’s even a big fucking grin on his kiss-swollen lips.
“Uh, surprising me twice,” Hard continues. “Shit, Arlo Judge! Call that three times, sweetcakes.”
“Stop calling me that,” I snap at my artist without looking at him.
“Sure thing,” he agrees. “We don’t want the heavyweight champ to have a go at me.”
My gaze bloats. I toss it between the two men. “You two know each other?”
“Know is such a definitive term.” Hard extends his hand to Arlo. “I know of him.”
“Then you know he doesn’t do handshakes.” I move to step between them.
Arlo stops me with a brush of his fingers across my cheek. He extends his hand and grabs my tattoo artist’s proffered one in a hearty shake that shows no hint of discomfort or malice. “Hard Limit.” His unique voice rasps. He offers a nod. “Arlo Judge. It’s nice to formally meet you.”
Something passes between the two men, but I can’t discern it. It’s not macho chest-puffing bullshit, but it’s not nothing.
“How do you not know, but know of each other?” I pose my question to Arlo this time, knowing he’ll give me a straight answer. Then it hits me. “You have tattoos?”
“No.” He releases his grip on Hard and straightens, standing a few inches taller than the burly man with tattoos covering nearly every inch of his visible skin. “I don’t have a good canvas to work with, but Hota does. He’s been worked over by Hard Limit in the ring, on the tattoo table, and at Crave a few times.”
“Oh.” I feel like a total idiot. I knew Hard was pretty famous for his fine-line black and gray tattoos, but even more so for his need to find a partner’s hard limits.
“He doesn’t have to stop calling you sweetcakes on my account. I’m not going to take a swing at him unless he hurts you more than you ask for.” Arlo says this as though it’s no big deal, as if my whole frame of reference hasn’t shifted before my very eyes.
I pull him to me and press my lips to his. Then I brush my cheek across his, something that’s become highly addictive in such a short time. “Too easy.” I kiss the lobe of his ear and then release him.
“Quadruple surprise.” Hard stares up at us from his rolling stool. “Looks like you two found someone to loosen your limits with.” He gestures with his freshly wrapped tattoo gun. “Mazel tov.”
I’m pretty sure the big brute isn’t Jewish, but I could be stereotyping. He holds up the stencil that’s supposed to go up my side from my ribs to my hip bone. The basilisk is long and winding. Its scales are delicate, but its head and mouth are ferocious. Hard looks at the artwork, and then at my outfit. His lips screw into a pucker.
“I wasn’t planning on getting tattooed today. Or else I would have dressed for the occasion.” Plus, I don’t have on panties. My gaze jerks to Arlo, who has reclined himself into a leather armchair as though he hasn’t a care in the world. He doesn’t even smirk at my accusing glare. The mystery behind his eyes glints.
“Let me get a blanket for your lower half.” Hard shoves off with powerful legs and wheels to the farthest cabinet in his special room. Most of the other artists have stations with no walls. Very few even have privacy curtains. But Hard is known for tatting and piercing the most sensitive areas of the human body. Areas you don’t want on full display, even in the gnarliest tattoo studios.
The material of my sweater is thick. Something I’m just now thinking about as I play with the hem, while not thinking about sucking Arlo’s cock. It’s going to bunch up around my shoulders and make an already uncomfortable experience irritating as hell.
“Take it off.”
My head jerks up. Hard’s does too. We both look at Arlo as though he’s lost his mind.
“Take it off. Lie on the table. Face me. When you’re situated, he can cover your beautiful ass.”
The thump of my heart is in my throat. This could be disastrous. Without looking at Hard, I strip my dress, toss it at Arlo, and then lie on the chair facing the man who’s shredding all of my hard limits one at a time.
“All right.” Hard sighs. “That’s all fine, but I need you to stand so I can place the stencil.”
Arlo is ripping up my limits and my focus. This is far from my first tattoo. You wouldn’t know it from my behavior. I hop up, stand straight and lift my arms to shoulder height, while maintaining eye contact with my destroyer.
Hard situates the stencil, applies it, and then scoots back. “What do you think?”
“Arlo?” I challenge without looking at the outline of my newest beast.
His head cants. A moment later, it repositions. “Perfect.”
“Then let’s get to it.” I smile.
Hard stalls. “You’re really not going to look?”
“I trust Arlo.”
“What about me?” Hard scoffs.
“More than most.” I smile at Arlo. “Not near as much as him.”
“Okay.” He pats the seat. “Let’s get going.”
After I reposition on the table, he covers my hips and legs. The leather is cold, but Arlo’s gaze is warm. It holds me through the buzzing and scraping, the burning and pain. It’s a strange kind of euphoria. Not physical, as much as it is emotional. There’s a vulnerability here that I’ve never allowed.
Seems like the MO with him. Only him.
The final swipes tug at my sensitive skin. Hard hands me a mirror. “What do you think?”
I examine the beast. Its fine lines. Its sharp edges. Its fierce beauty.
“Perfect.” I offer Hard a soft smile. He covers the area with ointment and a second skin.
His gaze shoots to Arlo. Something is communicated without words. I miss it, but I can’t miss my tattoo artist’s gentle pat on my shoulder. “Until next time.” Then he makes a hasty exit.
“Did you threaten to punch him?” I eye Arlo.
“No.” He stands, tosses my dress onto the chair, and stalks forward. “I paid him, tipped him, and told him to get lost.”
My body tingles head to toe. Warmth gathers between my legs. “You did all that with a look?” I prop myself onto my elbow. “I know your looks are powerful. I didn’t know they were ATM and email included.”
He holds up a finger. “Remember your sass on the plane?”
I wiggle my toes to keep from shrieking. “Yes.”
“You owe me one. If you keep on, you’ll owe me two.” He extends another finger.
“Maybe I want to owe you.” I smirk. “Maybe you owe me.”
“How do you figure?”
“You teased me with the sight of your pretty cock through the screen, and then the promise of things in my mouth.” I eye his zipper, hiding neatly behind a flap of wool. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m pleased with what I received, but I want what you promised on the plane. I want you to put your fat cock in my pretty mouth and make me choke on it.”
“Fuck, Hailey.” His fingers bunch into lethal fists. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go. After all that pain, I was supposed to make you feel good.”
“Watching you come apart will make me feel good. It will make me feel powerful. It will make me feel in control.”
Arlo lifts the table with a lever on the floor, until I’m eye level with my prize.
“You are in control, Hailey.” He unfastens his zipper and pulls himself free. His silky skin is near purple with blood flow. He’s hard and huge.
“You’re dripping for me.” I lick my lips and wrap my hand around his base.
“Of course, I am.” He groans. “It’s pretty much a constant state you keep me in. Weeping for you.”
My body hums with the after-tattoo high that can’t hold a candle to his words, his body, his commanding presence. He stirs me in a way I could have never imagined.
I pull him closer and let my gaze feast on his stunning cock. It doesn’t fully fit in the circle of my hand. His skin is soft and smooth. I run my lips along the sides, reveling in the firm length, protruding veins, and heavy ridges.
When my gaze flits up, I find him intent on my movements. His eyes are intense, but his body is relaxed and open, ready and willing for me. I grin, wet my mouth, and descend on his flesh one glorious inch at a time.
He’s warm and full. My jaw twinges, and my lips stretch. I love it. His salty taste goes straight to my head, making me high on him. Or maybe that’s our locked gazes.
“Hailey.” He rasps my name in that way only he can, and I moan. His fingertips follow the line of my hair from my forehand to my jaw. I preen into his touch. My hand falls away. I push forward, taking him deeper, pulling him into my throat. He gives me that sound I love; it’s a mix of a groan and a hum. “You suck me so good.”
His hand shifts over my throat, feeling the stretch he gives me. It’s a sweet but possessive grip that makes my eyes roll and my body arch. I bob on his length so he can experience the stroke inside and out.
“Fuck, love.” His knees give just a little, and he braces his other hand on the table. “Breathe a little, would you.” He pulls from my throat, and I suck him to the very tip.
“Spoilsport.” I pull his tie, dragging his mouth to mine. He comes willingly. His big hands clutch my jaw and the side of my face as his tongue plunders my mouth. I’m swimming in pheromones by the time he pulls back.
“Hardly.” He grabs the base of his cock and the back of my neck. “If you pass out, you’ll ruin our good time and scare the piss out of me.” He feeds the slick, bulbous head between my lips. I firm my lips and squeeze him tight before relaxing to accommodate him.
He sets the pace, taking what he wants and giving me the same in return. By the time he’s settled a rhythm all the way into the back of my throat and all the way out, I’m slick between my legs and dry-humping the air.
“Put your hands between your legs and play with my pussy.”
I keen on his cock, while my fingers rush to obey.
“Is that pretty pink slit wet for me?”
My nod is frantic. I spread my legs wide without being concerned about who might walk in and see. In fact, the thought kicks my desperation for him into overdrive.
“Yes, it is.” The tempo of his thrusts increases. “It’s so ready for this dick.”
“Yes.” I moan on the thing I want between my legs. My fingers spread my pussy lips wide, and I concentrate on my slick clit.
Arlo pinches my nipple. It sends shock waves coursing through me. They detonate in my cunt. I fully give myself over to the deviant sounds and the delectable feeling of him stretching my throat, of him owning my body, of him commanding my pleasure…after so much pain.
“The second you tell me you’re mine, I’m going to fill that greedy cunt to the brim with my cock and my cum, and then I’m going to drink it from you.”
“Oh fuck.” I shatter, and he shoots deep into my throat. I choke and gulp and love every fucking second of it. Because I want that. I want that and more. I just have to be brave enough to take it.
I lie on the table in jagged pieces. My body swims in relief while my mind reels at the possibilities before me.
Arlo pulls from my mouth and disappears from view for a minute or five. I can’t really grasp the concept of time right now. He returns, looking prim and proper. His lips press to my forehead for a long moment, and then he takes my hand in his. He pulls me up and leads me into the attached bathroom.
He leans over me, turns the water on in the sink, and washes my hands as though I’m a child. I watch our fingers dip and slide together. The bubbles form a barrier, and then they’re rinsed away.
Finally, I’m able to function just a little, and I find my reflection in the mirror.
“Oh my goodness.” My eyes snap shut at the horror reflected back.
“Open your eyes, Hailey.”
I do, but I look immediately at his reflection over my shoulder. His gaze is warm but taut. “Look at my siren.” My gaze pleads, but he’s insistent. “Now.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I look at myself. The mascara left on my lashes is clumped together in a ratty mess, while the rest has run rivers down my cheeks and neck. My hair has fully morphed into the beast. It’s frizzy and disorganized, sort of like my insides feel.
“She is stunning. She is kind. She makes the world a better place. She is bold and unafraid of her desire. She is strong and independent. She is capable of all things, including vulnerability and love.” He lifts a warm rag to my face and gently removes every scrap of makeup. His fingers smooth the furrow over my brow. “Isn’t she?”
I grab his hand and kiss his palm because I don’t know if I am. I hold tight to his hand and stand tall in the mirror, really looking at myself. At my bright eyes and swollen lips, at my pink cheeks and soft smile. Then I find his eyes.
“I want to be.”
“That’s what my old therapist would call progress.” He kisses my temple and then tugs me back to the leather chair, where he pulls my dress over my head. He smooths my hair back. “Let me cook you dinner?”
I should go home and wash the day off. I should pull on sweats and drown in a pint of ice cream and foul television. I should cuddle Plinko close to my chest and be safe.
Being safe has gotten me far in life, but being safe won’t get me what I suddenly want more than anything I’ve ever wanted.
“Yes.”