Chapter 32
SHADE
I can’t stop looking at her.
It’s taking everything in me not to storm across the studio, bend her over that desk she keeps hiding behind, and take her the way I’ve been thinking about for the last week straight.
Soft to start, careful as I work my cock inside before grinding deep.
She’d moan my name, and I’d curse hers against her throat, her shoulders, or her mouth.
I’m so far past losing my mind. It’s already gone, and now she’s chipping away at my rib cage, determined to rip my heart clean out of my chest and shove it into her tiny pink purse.
I grind my teeth and continue flicking through this week’s photos on my camera, not paying attention to a single one of them.
They’re a blur, a distraction.
“Can I ask you something?”
My entire body tenses at the sound of her voice. She hasn’t spoken since the last client of the day left, and fuck! How could I have missed it after only an hour?
“Go for it,” I grunt.
A tense pause. “Could I host the first book club meeting upstairs? And don’t feel pressured to say yes. It’s your place. I know I’m just a guest here, and I’d never want to put you out or make you feel uncomfortable—”
“Yes,” I blurt, my voice rough. Clearing my throat, I add, “You can have it upstairs.”
“We can? You’re sure?”
The happiness in those four words shoots through me like adrenaline, lighting me up on the inside. It’s painful to hide how pleased it makes me to know I’ve made her feel that way.
“You’re not just a guest. Make your plans without worrying about my approval, Millie.”
Just one look. I can take just one damn look at her without . . . My heart hammers viciously when she stares right back. The soft gleam in those pools of blue keeps me locked in place, something so raw and desperate gnawing at the walls of my stomach.
“Thank you, Shade. I just wasn’t sure you’d be okay with a half-dozen women filling your apartment with sparkling wine and finger foods. If that spread around town, you could lose your ‘playboy’ reputation,” she teases, smirking.
I swallow to wet my dry throat. “I’m not a playboy.”
“What are you, then?”
There’s a beat of silence before I force myself to speak, dropping my gaze back to my camera. “I’ve never wanted a relationship. They’re complicated. There’s no time for complicated in my life.”
“Relationships are only complicated if you want them to be.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” I ask, attempting to hide the frustration that keeps bleeding into my voice. “You have less relationship experience than I do.”
“I’ve read about plenty.”
“The whole point of fiction is that it isn’t reality.”
The wheels of her chair roll across the floor as I keep clicking through photos. “Maybe you should take part in the book club meeting. You could learn a thing or two.”
“I’m not going to turn into a romance novel fan, Mills.”
“Have you ever even had a girlfriend?”
It’s a struggle not to groan when she doesn’t let it go. “How did we get on this topic?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m genuinely curious.”
“I’ve had a few. And like I said, they were too complicated.”
Millie hums, and I debate looking at her before turning the idea down. “When was the last time?”
“Jesus, you’re like a hound with a scent.”
“I’m curious!”
“Yeah, I know you are.”
“Just tell me.”
“Seven years ago. When the shop had just started to get really big,” I grit out, abandoning the camera on the metal cart.
“So, that’s why it was complicated, then.”
I let loose a low laugh before turning on my stool. Millie’s got this know-it-all look on her face that should piss me off more than it turns me on, but today’s been so ass backward I just accept the latter.
“You think you know everything, hmm?”
“I know more than you think I do.”
“All because of your books?”
“Are you familiar with early 2000s rom-coms?”
I let my head fall forward and blow out a breath. “So it’s not just books, then.”
“Of course it isn’t. I grew up sneaking DVDs into my room and staying up at night watching the classics.
By the time I was sixteen, I knew all the ways I wanted a guy to prove how much I meant to him.
How I wanted him to fight for me when he did what all men do and put his foot in his mouth.
I combatted my lack of real-life dating experience with movies that made me forget about reality. ”
I lean forward, spreading my knees. Millie watches me shift around, clearly trying to get comfortable beneath the weight of her supposed expectations.
Knowing she has standards when it comes to men is as admirable as it is intimidating.
My confidence takes a blow when I wonder to myself whether I’d be able to ever meet them. But it wouldn’t matter.
She’s. Leaving.
“There are things a fictional man from one of your books or movies would never think to give you.”
Her eyes sparkle. Fucking sparkle like sapphires. “Like what?”
“You need examples?”
“I want them. Prove your point to me, Mr. Arrogant.”
My laugh is scared, cracking in the middle.
Standing from my stool, I let myself take a risk.
I don’t bother looking at Millie before walking toward the leather chair seated in front of the studio’s big window, pulling my rolling cart of supplies behind me.
Her eyes pierce into my side as she watches me, staying quiet.
“Print your logo out on a stencil,” I order softly.
“My logo?”
“The one you’ve drawn for me. Print it out and bring it over.”
She doesn’t move. “Am I getting a tattoo?”
“No.”
By the time her footsteps finally hit the floor, I’m wrapping the tattoo machine. The printer kicks up soon after, and I don’t need to look toward the back of the studio to know she’s doing it correctly. She’s been printing a dozen stencils a day for the last week.
“Now what?” she asks on her way back.
“Now, I’m going to sit on the chair, and you’re going to tattoo that fucking logo of ours on my chest.”
Her heels scuff the floor. “You’re joking.”
I pour the ink into the caps, set the needle, and dispose of my gloves before taking a seat. Once I’m facing her, she stops moving altogether. Her eyes are round, full of nerves as they cling to me, a battle of wills taking place within them.
“Tell me which of your fictional men have done this,” I say, the possessive demand obvious.
She shakes her head, slowly coming closer. “It’s not a competition. When they make a gesture, there’s a meaning behind it. They don’t do it to be better than someone else. That’s what makes them gestures in the first place.”
“What if this was always my plan?”
“What was?” she whispers, her fingers bunching her plaid skirt in two fists, lifting it up her thighs slightly. “I’m not trained in how to do this.”
I skip her first question, not ready to say it out loud. “I always planned on teaching you. We’re just skipping a few steps now.”
“A few? We’re skipping all of them. I’ll hurt you.”
“Maybe.”
It goes far beyond wanting to outdo the men she fantasizes about.
It’s about proving that I could if I wanted to.
That I could be worthy of her if I ever gave myself the chance.
I’m not the guy to go out and stand in the rain shouting my feelings for everyone in a ten-block radius to hear.
But I am the one who’ll show it in private. Just like this.
“I can’t,” she argues on a heavy exhale.
“Yeah, you can. It’s not as hard as it seems. And I’ll help you.”
Her lip slips beneath her teeth. I smooth a hand down my thigh and lift my hand for her to take. She eyes it before slipping her fingers through mine and letting me pull her between my legs.
“You can’t possibly want this logo on you forever. Not by someone who will mess it up.”
“It’s the only tattoo I want right now. It’s perfect for this place, and I’m so fucking proud of what you created.”
“Where?” she croaks, blinking quickly.
My heart twists as I bring our hands to my chest. Where the only blank space of skin on my torso hides beneath my shirt. “Right here.”
“Stop.”
She tries to pull her hand free, but I keep it trapped in mine. The unshed tears glistening in her eyes are enough to send me to my knees on the ground in front of her, but I stay seated. I squeeze her fingers and tug, forcing her close enough that I can palm desperately at her waist.
“I’m proud of you,” I repeat slowly, so quietly a slight breeze could blow it away.
Her chin tucks as she drops her head, inhaling a shaky breath. “You’ll guide me as I do this? So that I don’t hurt you?”
“Yeah, princess. I’ll be here.”
“What if I hate doing this?”
“Then you hate it. You’ll never have to do it again,” I declare.
When she looks up at me again, there’s clarity in an endless sea of blue. “Okay.”
I hold her firmly, not ready to release her yet.
My palm is hot, searing into her waist before I let it slide beneath the ruffled hem of her shirt.
She shivers against me, lips parting around silent words.
I release her hand just long enough to tug my shirt over my head before taking it again, clutching onto it.
Her cheeks fill with a blush that matches her skirt.
“Sit on my lap, princess,” I instruct, already reaching beneath her thigh to lift her. “It’ll be easier this way.”
She doesn’t hesitate. And once she’s seated on me, I hand her a pair of the smallest gloves we have here.
“I’ll prep everything. You just need to watch.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I get to work while she keeps her eyes fixed on me, taking note of the way I shave the area, apply pre-stencil lotion, and the technique I use to put her design to my skin. She absorbs it all like an eager student, betraying her initial worry of hating this.
“I’ve got the proper needle in already, and the settings are chosen. The only thing I need you to focus on is feeling how deep you’re pressing into me. You need to go deep enough that the ink will stay, but not too deep that you damage the skin.”
She nods once, staring at the blue replica of the studio’s logo on my sternum.
Flanked by colour and designs I haven’t thought about since I got them years ago, hers is front and centre, taking the spot I wasn’t sure why was so goddamn special to me.
Keeping it blank was habit as I waited for something of importance to find its way there.
Today, Millie is going to fill it with something that will never only represent this studio.
Putting the gloves on, she adjusts her position on my lap. “Will you tell me if I’m doing it wrong?”
“Yeah, Millie. I’ll tell you,” I promise.
When she lifts the tattoo machine, I tense beneath her. She hesitates, eyes flashing to check on me.
“What?”
I almost laugh. “Grab it. I’m fine.”
“Why the tension, then?”
She takes the machine in her grip, and I tug the metal cart right up beside us.
“I’ll tell you once you’ve started.”
Her eyes roll, but there’s no real annoyance there. “Fine.”
“When you turn it on, you’ll put the needle into the ink and wait for the cap to fill before starting. Try and always keep it full.”
“Okay.”
“Pull my skin taut, and slowly let the needle press into the skin as you follow the stencil. Don’t jab it in right away.
I’ll tell you when you’re deep enough,” I explain, tightening my grip on her waist. “There’s paper towel on the cart.
You’ll use it to wipe away the ink every time you stop.
Just like I did when I put that crown on you. ”
“This is way more complicated than a crown.”
“Do you trust me, Millie?”
The question looks like it rocks her. Her lashes flutter as she blinks quickly before answering, “Yes.”
“You can handle this. But if you decide to stop once you start, I’ll go over to the mirror and finish it myself, okay?”
She lets some of her fear go, relaxing her hold on the machine. “Don’t judge me for this.”
“I’d never fucking judge you for anything. Especially not this.”
It’s enough for her. I feel her move, reaching to where the ink is before a familiar buzz fills the room. It’s impossible to look away from the determination tightening her expression, transforming her into the confident badass that I knew has been inside of her all this time.
I fill my other hand with the curve of her ass, keeping her locked onto my lap. She faces me now, my tattoo machine in her hand. It spits ink as she leans into my chest and stretches my skin. My groin tightens in preparation for the first jab of the needle, and I hiss a breath when it comes.
“Deeper.”
She nods, pressing slightly harder. The initial drag of the needle hurts as she figures out the right angle, and once she does, the pain becomes what it always is. A nuisance more than something that could make me howl from its bite.
“That’s it,” I praise, dragging my thumb over her stomach. “Go slow. Stop when you need to wipe the ink.”
“Does it hurt?” she asks, pulling the needle away to clean the lines she’s made.
“No.”
Her lips twist. “Are you lying?”
I reach beneath her skirt to squeeze her bare ass. There are no panties to be found until I extend my fingers and find the thong tucked beneath her cheeks. My cock stiffens against my groin, growing too fucking hard.
“Got a distraction right here if it starts to,” I muse.
“You’ll distract me more than yourself. Then, you’ll really wind up with a botched tattoo.”
“Is that what I’m doing, Millie?”
She stretches to the side and pokes the needle into the ink before returning it to my chest. “Wasn’t that your plan?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m working.”
My chuckle is deep and loud. “Multitask, then.”
She scoots further up my lap then, the needle hovering over my chest as she looks at me.
There’s heat in her gaze, a vibrant want that she’s trying to trap behind blunt words.
I feel it too, though. Feel it so intensely that I’m wondering how easy it would be to pull my dick out of my jeans and push her panties aside long enough to get a single inch inside of her.
“Careful,” I warn roughly.
The quirk of her lips is anything but.