Chapter 42 #2
I took a deep breath and moved toward the chair, shrugging out of my cardigan before folding it neatly and placing it on the counter. I settled into the seat, my fingers trembling only slightly as I hiked up my dress and pushed down my panties to bare the space I’d chosen.
Though he didn’t say anything as he pulled on his gloves, he watched me the entire time. His gaze was heavy. Heated. Like he was studying my every reaction and memorizing them for later.
With steady hands, he prepped the area, his movements precise and practiced. Professional. But there was absolutely nothing detached about it.
His breath skimmed over my exposed skin as he leaned closer to place the stencil, and goose bumps erupted over every inch of my body.
He glanced up at me, his eyes dark. “You good?”
“Uh-huh.” My voice came out thinner than I’d intended, so I cleared my throat. “You’re just…in my personal space.”
He gave me that infuriating smirk I could no longer pretend to hate. “You invited me.”
At his low words, warmth bloomed in my belly, slow and dangerous and entirely earned. The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. I had invited him—into my life, onto my skin, and into the secret places I’d spent years keeping guarded.
And he’d never once made me regret it.
He adjusted the stencil slightly, thumb smoothing over my skin in a way that felt anything but accidental, and I couldn’t stop the shiver from zipping down my spine. My body reacted to him like it belonged solely to his touch, like it recognized the difference between proximity and intention.
This wasn’t just closeness. It was awareness.
And he had all of mine.
Instead of commenting like I figured he would, he just deepened his smirk, and that was almost worse. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he loved every second.
Worse, I did too.
After verifying the stencil was placed where I wanted it, he positioned himself at my side, his tattoo gun gripped in his hand. “Ready?”
I tightened my fingers on the material of my dress bunched at my waist, inhaled a deep breath, and nodded. “Ready.”
The machine buzzed to life, the sound sending a jolt of surprise through me. A tiny grin curved up the side of his mouth before he focused his attention on my skin.
“It’ll sting a bit, but try not to flinch when I press it against you.”
I held as still as I could, bracing myself for razor blades carving into my skin or something equally as horrid. But at the first press of the needle on my skin, I sucked in a breath as relief settled over me.
It wasn’t unbearable, not even close. His descriptor had been accurate—it did sting, a pinpoint of discomfort, bright and focused—but what startled me the most wasn’t the level of pain.
It was the intimacy of the act.
His left hand was anchored firmly on my lower belly, steadying me as he worked, his right hand guiding the machine with measured, precise strokes.
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my skin, his concentration absolute. “You’re doing so good for me, baby.”
My nipples hardened, and I wanted nothing more than to press my thighs together, but I couldn’t. Not when he was this close.
Was it any wonder how my body responded to his praise when he’d uttered the same words to me while he’d been inside me or going down on me or finger-fucking me in an alley where anyone could walk by and see?
The vibration of the tattoo gun hit me deeper than I expected, a strange, rhythmic hum that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was sharp and tender and overwhelming, but underneath it all was the undeniable awareness that this wasn’t just a tattoo.
This was him.
His art and his ink…his hands etching something permanent onto my skin.
Heat coiled low in my belly, confusing but unmistakable. Even with the sting of the needle, I couldn’t deny the way my body was reacting to him and the way he was touching me like I was something precious.
“Still with me?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I breathed, though my voice trembled. “I just…”
He paused, lifting the tattoo gun from my skin and glancing up. “What?”
I swallowed, my cheeks flushing in a way I couldn’t hope to conceal. “It feels different than I expected.”
“Different how?” he asked.
“I don’t…hate it.”
He shifted his eyes to the scrap of lace doing a poor job of hiding my pussy from him, his jaw flexing once before meeting my gaze again. “No. You don’t.”
I should’ve been embarrassed that he’d clocked exactly how this was affecting me. But the heat in my cheeks didn’t feel like shame. It felt like anticipation.
As he continued working, the sting sharpened when he passed over a sensitive spot. I tightened my fists in the material of my dress, a small hiss slipping from my throat before I could stop it.
“Don’t tense up on me now, rebel.” He pulled the machine away, wiping a paper towel over what he’d already inked, and met my gaze. “You know I won’t give you more than you can handle.”
“You’ve said that before.”
His lips twitched. “And was it true?”
I thought back to all the nights we’d shared and everything we’d done together. All the ways he’d pushed me—my body and my boundaries. But he was right. He’d never once given me more than I could handle.
I didn’t answer, but that was answer enough for him. He smirked before lowering his head once again and getting back to work.
The sensations started to blur into one—pain and warmth and arousal threading together until I wasn’t entirely sure where one ended and the others began. My body reacted, pulse quickening, breath growing shallow—not because of the tattoo itself, but because it was Declan marking me.
After a while—minutes? hours? I no longer had any sense of time—he leaned back slightly, assessing the design. “Almost there, baby.”
God, he was so sexy as he worked, curved over me like this, his head bent low, his grip firm. He was all focus and steady hands, and there was something ruthless in the intensity he directed solely at me.
When the machine finally went silent for a long stretch, the sudden absence of sound was overwhelming. My skin ached, warm and tender, and my entire body was buzzing with something far deeper than adrenaline.
He wiped over the tattoo one last time, set the machine down, and grabbed a hand mirror. “You ready to see it?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t so sure.
I tried to still my trembling hands as I reached for the mirror and held it at the right angle. My breath caught at what I saw—the pale flesh and freckles I knew so well now broken up by dark ink that looked like it had always belonged there.
Like my skin had just been waiting for it.
This was more than a drawing…more than a tattoo. This was forever proof that Declan had seen me. Seen me and marked me as his.
Feelings overwhelmed me as I stared at his work, something settling deep in my heart at the acknowledgment that this had unequivocally shifted something between us without either of us saying a word.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like…or next week when our thirty days ran out and reality came knocking.
What I did know was that his mark—on my body and in my heart—wasn’t something I’d ever be able to erase.