Chapter 19
MILLIE
I’ve never liked the word “slut.”
The negative connotation is not only socially damaging but also emotionally abusive and dehumanizing.
Despite my lack of sex life, I’ve never judged others for being interested in having one.
It’s natural, and I’m beyond jealous of anyone who can feel so confident and excited about it that they have lots of it.
With that said, I think Shade has turned me into one. An orgasm slut, at least. It would make one hell of a bumper sticker.
After only a single fingered orgasm, I’ve become intensely interested in getting myself there over and over again. Maybe it was because after so long, the floodgates have opened, and for the first time, I’m able to get myself off, but holy.
I was nearly late to work this morning because I was too busy repeating Shade’s instructions from last night. And it was far from the first time in the last twelve hours.
“You look horny,” Bryce utters, appearing behind me.
Jerking in my chair, I whip my head to the side and swallow. “What?”
“You look horny.”
“I heard you.”
She drops a hand to the desk I spent all morning cleaning and organizing. “You don’t have any tattoos, do you?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
My temperature cools, going back to normal. “So why did you ask?”
“Getting a new piece can turn someone on. I was curious if you were enjoying watching Shade work.”
I was, but not because of that.
“People get turned on when they get a tattoo? Why? I always assumed they hurt.”
“Body modifications can be arousing to some. Or so I’ve heard. Shade would know more about it than me.”
My skin prickles, and I’m drawn to where he sits beside the woman on the bed.
He’s already watching me, the needle of his gun lifted an inch above the patch of skin he’s been tattooing for the last hour.
It’s a collarbone design that he showed off the sketch for this morning.
His thick black brow curves upward when I stare back.
“He sees a lot of people get aroused while tattooing?” I ask, finally focusing back on Bryce.
She tilts her head, her mouth curling at the corners. “Oh, probably. But that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m confused,” I admit.
With a relaxed jerk of her shoulder, she says, “You should ask him about it. I’m going for lunch now. If my one o’clock comes in before I’m back, can you ask what size they were thinking for design and print a few examples off? My iPad is hooked up to the printer.”
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, my thoughts scattering.
“Thanks.”
Bryce leaves, and I stay seated. The music today was Shade’s choice, and as the last song rolls into the next, it’s easy to tell what his preferred genre is.
The raspy voice singing over a hard-rock beat flows through the studio but still can’t hide the buzz of the gun.
I’ve begun hearing that sound while I’m at home now, almost like it follows me everywhere, reminding me of where I’ve been spending my days.
I think I like it now, actually. Instead of annoying, it’s calming.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never modified my body in any way, but I don’t know how someone could get pleasure from it.
I’d expect pain and discomfort, not arousal.
Then again, there are all sorts of kinks that I don’t understand because I’ve never experienced them.
Maybe this shouldn’t be all that surprising after all.
Sneaking a look across the studio, I place my hand on the edge of the desk.
Shade’s concentrated as he brings the needle along the blue stencil on the woman’s collarbone.
He follows the sketch with precision, only stopping when he swipes away the ink with a paper towel or swaps out the needle he’s using.
The buzzing cuts before he wheels himself toward the metal toolbox-looking set-up beneath the sign with his name and takes a packaged needle from where he has all of his supplies laid out. The cling wrap lies beneath everything, keeping it sanitary, I assume.
He swaps out the needle with ease and then presses a few buttons on the gun before wheeling back to her and dipping it into a cap of pink ink.
The buzzing starts again before he gets back to work, his hand moving differently this time.
Instead of short strokes, he’s almost sweeping it over the skin inside the stencil.
I bounce my leg and reach for the small notepad by the keyboard.
There’s a pen beside it that I pick up before tapping the tip to the paper.
Looking back at Shade, I increase how fast I’m moving my leg.
He’s so calm . . . like he feels no pressure while permanently changing this woman’s appearance.
If he messes up, she’ll have to see his mistake forever.
Long black hairs fall against his temples, brushing his skin as he lifts off the stool slightly to lean further over her.
The paper towel he was using to wipe excess ink is filthy as he dabs the edge of the design, adding pink to the black and red.
He tightens his face in concentration, every move of his wrist made with purpose.
There’s a soft pulse between my legs that pulls me out of my haze. I clench my core and roll my lip between my teeth. Heat builds beneath my skin, staying trapped as I drop my gaze from Shade to the notepad.
I still.
One five-letter word has been sketched on it, and as I drop the pen and lift my hand, I see the black smudges on the side of it.
SHADE stares up at me from the paper, the letters thick and bold with little flicks sticking out every few strokes.
Without filling them in, they look unfinished and hollow, but still cool.
Interesting in a way I’ve never thought plain letters could appear.
It’s embarrassing to be doodling your boss’s name on paper stamped with the name of the business you’re sitting inside. However, I never did notice the stamp there. Not until right now. It’s not exactly eye-catching with its boring, thin lines and lack of visual appeal.
Why did he use this one in the first place? It doesn’t match the aesthetic or the beautiful work he can create on both paper and skin.
Turning away from the sight of him working, I tuck myself into place with my legs beneath the desk and pick the pen back up.
I lock in to the letters in front of me and focus on recreating them in the empty space above.
One by one, I work through the rest of the studio name, skipping the T in THE for now.
By the time I’ve realized that I’m sketching the shape of a tattoo gun into the shape of that T, my neck pangs from deep in the muscle. I lick my dry lips and squint at it, dragging the thick tip of the pen to where I’ve created an ink spot beneath it.
“What’s that?”
The pen goes flying into the air. My heart falls to my stomach as I push away from the desk and gawk up at Shade’s face. His expression is open and curious, but that dang smirk is still there, making me more nervous that I’d be without it.
Scrambling, I reach for the notepad but can’t snag it in time. Shade swipes it clean off the table and holds it in front of him, staring at it like he’s either disturbed or intrigued.
“Give it back. It’s—”
“If I hadn’t caught you drawing it, I’d have thought you had it done by someone else online,” he says before I can finish.
My eyes widen. “Like, paid someone to create it?”
“Yeah, princess. It’s fucking great. Incredible, actually.”
My lungs pinch, making my inhale short and nowhere near full enough. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Did you just do this now?”
“I got . . . inspired? Maybe? I don’t know if that was why I started doodling. It just happened.”
Shade nods, seeming to understand what I’m saying despite my word vomit.
“I’d say you were right to start with. Inspiration doesn’t make sense most of the time.
I’ll see a bug on the trunk of a tree and find myself pulling a sketchbook out and drawing a riverbed. There’s not always a reason for it.”
“It was like my hand moved, but my mind didn’t.”
“Have you drawn like this before?”
“A few times. Mostly if I’m alone and haven’t been out for a few days. I get restless.”
He hums, shifting closer to where I’m sitting, no longer standing at the edge of the desk. “Do you have a proper sketchbook?”
“You’re holding it.”
“This is a notepad.”
“It works good enough, doesn’t it?”
His brown eyes lighten to a warm chocolate. “Use it for now, but no, Millie, you need something real.”
“I’m not an artist,” I argue, feeling a bit . . . sheepish. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with something more real than this.”
“If it’s natural, it will come to you. You don’t need to force anything. We’ll get you one just in case.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He focuses on the design again, his eyes tightening at the corners. “Can you refine this? Clean it up a bit for me?”
“Um, sure. Yeah, I can.”
“I’ve been wanting a new logo for the studio for a couple of years now but just never found the time to get one commissioned. I want to use yours. I’ll pay for it, of course. If you get me a second draft and upload it to the computer, I’d like to see a few different mock-ups.”
“You want to use it for this place? Shade—”
He shakes his head and sets the pad down on the desk before tugging me out from beneath the desk. My chair is rolled back as I blink at him, swallowing the rest of my argument. Shade grips the edge of the desk and leans over me, his body creating a thick bubble around us.
“It’s fucking great, Millie. Shake those doubts from your head—I can see them running wild in there. I’m not in the habit of using my business to give pity to people.”
I want to accept his offer and the kindness that comes with it. He’s been nothing but honest with me from the start, so it should be easy. Yet there’s still that wiggle of uncertainty. Like maybe he’ll pull the rug out from me the moment I do as he’s asked.
“Get me the second draft, and we’ll ask Bryce. She’ll rip it to shreds if she doesn’t like it. You can’t argue with that,” he adds.
“That’s true.”
“Just say yes. There’s no harm in giving it a shot. You can make some extra cash too.”
“I could use it to get some perfume. I haven’t had any since I left home,” I blurt before I can stop myself. My entire body burns from embarrassment as I add, “Or obviously pay Shelly for the cabin. Duh.”
If I could discreetly smack myself in the face for saying something so random and weird, I’d do it right now. It would be like a scene from a cartoon.
“You smell pretty good to me, princess. Today and last night,” he murmurs, his tongue tracing his bottom lip.
That forgotten pulse between my legs comes back with a fury. This time, I can’t simply wish it away. It lingers, growing stronger with every second he holds my gaze, his lips quirking like he knows exactly what’s happening to me.
My throat strains as I speak. “If you say so.”
“It’s true.”
“Do you like teasing me?”
“More than I should, probably.”
“Why?”
He sneaks a look over his shoulder to where the woman was earlier but isn’t anymore. When he finds my eyes again, he leans further into my space and strokes his knuckles down the side of my throat, pausing with them pressed to my pulse.
His smirk stretches into a dirty grin. “You excite me.”
It’s almost a joke how easily he says it. As if I’m not excited in a completely different way.
“Well, that’s new.”
“You don’t think you excite other people?” he asks, his touch sliding around to the front of my throat, a palm warm against it. “Other men?”
I swallow, and he holds my throat as it strains, locking it in his hold. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You should. I assume it would be obvious.”
“Where’s your client?” I ask, fighting the urge to look for her myself.
“Out back, taking a smoke break. We’ve got an hour left, and my shoulder was cramping. Bryce is on lunch.”
“She told me.”
I can’t look at where he’s continuing to hold my throat without pulling away, and I don’t want to. The sensation of his hand on a place where he could so easily crush my windpipe shouldn’t be as relaxing as it is. It should be intense, and I feel like I should be scared. Worried, even.
I’m none of those things. If anything, I want him to apply more pressure and squeeze lightly. My heart rate ramps up, perspiration clinging to the skin beneath my hair.
Shade scrolls his eyes down to where he’s touching me, the milk-chocolate colour of them darkening a shade. He runs his thumb over my pulse one last time before pressing harder, his fingers digging slightly into the sides of my throat.
I expel a soft, breathy moan and let my eyelids droop. A shiver races through me as I sip in air through lips I can’t keep pressed together.
“Millie,” he says roughly once I shift, pressing my thighs together.
Without a skirt today, I feel more constricted in this position. The near-leather pants mould to my centre and the panties I can feel growing damp. My chest pulls tight, nipples beading and scraping in a way that sends zaps of pleasure down to where I’m already aching.
I force my eyes to open and let my mouth fill with saliva, unable to swallow with his tightening hold on my throat.
There’s a wildness in his eyes, and I’d have to be blind not to notice the dilation of his pupils.
I don’t need experience to know that he’s eyeing me up like he’s considering using this very hold on me to lift me onto the desk and—
“Alright, I think I’m good. It’s cold as balls outside, so don’t mind the goosebumps.”
Shade’s hand releases me at the same time I push myself back on the wheels of my chair. I slap my palm to the desk to stop myself from rolling to the front door and avoid looking at him as he clears his throat.
“Take a seat again,” he instructs, his voice tight.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how bright my cheeks are before he gets back to work. Instead of sparing him another glance, I keep my focus on the drawing left on the desk.
It’s a reminder of something other than the touch I still feel on my throat, so I fall into it.
I hunch myself over the notepad and rip off the first drawing before starting on a second draft.
The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the studio again, distracting me in the same way I know it’s distracting him.
Am I an orgasm slut . . . or Shade’s?