Chapter 19“I’m all yours, Firecracker.”
NINETEEN
“I’m all yours, Firecracker.”
Ivy
“He’s leaving it up to me,” I whisper in the receiver to my sister, Juniper, whom I called for emotional support and squealing. Well, mostly squealing.
“And an apology!” she squeals back, because that’s what sisters are for.
“I know! I don’t know, Juni. Something is different. It’s like… he’s ready to be present in his life here and Bluebell, and somehow I’m part of that. And not just at Ink Time.”
“I’m glad. I’m glad he’s figuring it out. I know how much you respect him as a creator. And I know how you feel about him,” Juniper adds, the sound of a jar being popped in the background. “So where’s it gonna be? His shoulder? Ankle?”
I swallow, my excitement flaring. “His hipbone. He said he has a spot there for me.”
“Ooh, beneath his pants. That’s intimate.”
Juniper doesn’t have any tattoos. She doesn’t realize that when it comes to getting inked, asking an artist to tattoo your hip or belly or even cleavage isn’t really intimate. Not to the artist at least.
“Yeah, and you know what I’m gonna do?” I ask, looking behind me to double-check the office door in Ink Time is shut for the trillionth time. “Am I talking loud?” I whisper, massively concerned that Trace can hear every word I’m saying.
She laughs. “No, in fact, I can hardly hear you over the batch of jam I’m making.”
My mind temporarily veers to Juni’s jam, and despite having just had lunch, my stomach still rumbles. “Oooh, what kind?”
“Dragon Fruit. It’s a… special order,” she says, her voice veering off. “Dash’s Dragon Fruit. Limited edition. Single batch.”
I smirk. “Dash Foster?” I’ve seen him poking around our place for the last six months, and I know she’s friends with him. But I’m pretty sure they’re on the cusp of more. “We saw him at Goode’s today.”
“Oh yeah?” Her interest is piqued, but she veers the topic back to me. “Well, tell me what design you’re doing on Trace!”
“We’re putting a pin in this Dash Foster thing, got it?”
I can picture her saluting me. “Got it.”
“Okay,” I check behind me again. The door is still closed. “A Firecracker.”
Juniper howls. “Oh my God. That’s so cute!”
Both of my sisters know that I love when Trace calls me Firecracker. “It’s cute. I’ll take a picture of the sketch and send it to you.”
“Is that what you’re supposed to be working on right now instead of talking to me?” she asks, the mother in her coming out. I can’t wait until she has kids of her own, because she was great at helping raise Dolly and me.
“Yep,” I admit. “But I’ve been sketching firecrackers since the first time he called me that. I’ve got the one I want to use ready. Just need to run it through the stencil machine.”
There’s a knock at the door. “You good?” Connor calls.
“Mm-hmm,” I call back, closing my notepad, slipping my pencil through the loop. “Gotta go. See you tonight,” I say to my sister. She says goodbye, and then I’m walking through Ink Time, on my way to tattoo the Trace Calhoun.
Err, Trace Wade.
Turning the corner, I find Trace laid out on the tattoo chair, his arms behind his head. “My afternoon session was canceled.”
“Oh no,” I reply, straddling the rolling chair as I take a seat. I open my sketch book and get to work getting the stencil made, my back to him. I want my back to him right now because the sight of him in that chair, knowing his cock is where I put it? My pussy is weeping. “Everything okay?”
“I canceled it.”
My stomach bottoms out as I turn, blinking at him. “Why?”
He sits up, unbuttoning his jeans after undoing his belt. With a gentle tug, his pants slide down his hips and he leans back. “Thought I might be sore after my session with you.”
“It’s a small tattoo,” I deadpan. “Your entire body is covered in ink.”
He winks, and that simple gesture sends a wave of pleasure rolling through my lower half, leaving my legs wobbly. Glad I’m sitting.
“Want to see it or do you want it to be a surprise?” I ask, hoping he’ll choose the latter. I really want to see his face when I unveil it to him. I love that first look expression. I’ve seen him experience it with clients, I’ve seen Connor experience it, too. And I’ll never forget the awe in Rochelle’s eyes when she first laid eyes on her chastity tattoo.
The expression of seeing something so beautiful but also, so fitting for who you are, how it becomes part of your identity and your story, and today, I get to make that happen for Trace.
It’s special. Tattoos are special, and I’ve always known it.
But now making it happen for other people is incredible.
I got emotional when I finished Rochelle’s tattoo, mostly because it was her dream and my art and those two things came together to create a powerful moment for both of us.
Will I have that with Trace? I don’t know. Maybe receiving tattoos aren’t special to him anymore.
What I do know is no matter his reaction, I’m going to feel the same way I did with Rochelle.
Amazed.
“Surprise me,” he says, after a thoughtful pause. “I’m not normally a surprise guy. In fact, the last surprise was a bad one, and kind of set me off on this trajectory…” He trails off a minute, staring down at the blank space on his body before his eyes find their way to mine again. “You know, the man whore, boozing one?”
I snap on my gloves. “I’m familiar.”
He smiles, all white teeth and stubbled jaw, his long hair framing his face, partially curtaining the dark ink on this throat.
He’d make beautiful babies. And seeing those strong hands with his classic gold watch holding a baby to his bare, inked chest is almost getting me pregnant at just the thought.
“You ready?” I ask, crossing and uncrossing my legs to find the right position. Definitely not to ease the ache building inside me.
“I’m all yours, Firecracker.”
The machine vibrates in my palm and my heart races, adrenaline spearing through my veins as I lower my hand to his body.
“You sure the stencil looks good?” he asks, causing my eyes to veer up to him. Trace is smirking and I responsively roll my eyes. “Kidding,” he says.
He reaches out, fingering the key as I take my position. “Does this bother you?” he asks softly, somehow quieter than the machine, but I can still hear him.
I shake my head. “No.”
He strokes the key a few more times before folding his arms behind his head. The needle hits his skin and my instincts take over, following the purple lines with precision.
“I can’t believe what that key goes to,” he says thoughtfully.
I snort, because when I think about the fact that Trace Calhoun is on my table—that I have a table at all—and his famous cock is in a cage and I’m at the helm? “Fuck, you and me both.”
Another minute of tattooing and I add, “I think it’s sexy, personally.”
“What about it is sexy?” he asks, but not with condescension. And when I glance up at his face, I see genuine curiosity. As if he knows I’m checking to see if he’s defensive or salty, he quickly adds, “I mean, I think it’s hot, too. I just wanna know why you think it’s hot.”
“I like the idea of making things playful,” I say, almost surprised by how easily the truth comes. “In my last relationship—and I’m not saying we’re in a relationship—but with Rhett, there was so much pressure on the sex to be a certain way. He really needed me to scream and moan and tell him he’s the king.”
“Did you?” he asks.
“I think the better question to ask was, was he?” I retort, smirking as I finish the edge of the fuse, swiping my cloth over it to make sure it’s perfect.
He snorts. “Well, was he?”
I send him a pointed glare. “He was not.”
At that moment, Deuce and Connor appear, their heads tilted to eye the design. “Don’t say anything,” I blurt out, “because it’s a surprise.”
Deuce winks at me before tossing a nod to Trace. “All right, Con and I are heading out early, got some shit to do. Trace, lock up and don’t forget to set the alarm.” He looks at me. “Ivy, don’t forget to set the alarm.”
“Hey!” Trace protests playfully. “I won’t forget.”
Connor squeezes my shoulder. “Great work, Ivy. See you tomorrow. Later, Trace.” A few moments of baited silence pass where I wait to hear the door click, and then… we’re officially alone.
“Okay, back to our talk… did you?”
I roll my eyes, hating the answer but knowing I have to tell him the truth. “I did play along. And that was part of it. I hated feeling disingenuous, and that made the sex… not fun.”
“Sex should always be fun,” he says slowly, his voice suddenly rawer and deeper than before. My skin prickles.
“I agree. And… that’s why I like… it,” I say, unable to say chastity cage aloud, afraid Connor or Deuce may overhear despite the fact I know they’re gone and my fear is totally irrational. Plus, Deuce already knows. Still, I struggle a bit. “But I also like the exchange of power, too. I mean, Rochelle does it full time and they never swap roles. If it were me, I’d like to swap roles. But just knowing that’s possible— knowing I’m with a guy who will relinquish control the same way he expects me to do… it’s fucking hot.”
I want to glance up at him, to study his face and pull apart what I think it means, but I don’t. I keep my eyes on the prize, and continue to keep my focus on outlining. He’s quiet, so I find myself rambling.
“I mean, it’s not 1950. If women want their turn at being dominant, leading sex and exploring their own desires, why shouldn’t they have that? Men get to do that all the time. They get to smack our asses in doggy style, they get to spit into our open mouths and slap our cheek to tell us to swallow it, they get to use our mouths like pussies, stick their dicks in our asses, hold us by the throat, tell us to take it—why shouldn’t women get to experience that? Because we don’t have a penis? I’m sorry, but I have a womb. I make life. I think I’ve earned the right to tell a man to suck my strap, for God’s sake.”
The outline is complete, so I let my eyes wander to his, and find them glazed over, hooded as he stares up at me.
“I agree completely,” he murmurs.
“You have a… weird look on your face,” I say as I switch the needle out from the cartridge, dipping it into the prefilled cap on my tray. I hope he’s patriotic because this Firecracker is.
“I just… I agree. I mean, I’ve never been in a switch relationship?—”
“Switch?” I question as I get started on the body of the firecracker.
“When you’re both dominant and submissive, at different times, depending.”
“Ahh,” I reply, my eyes veering off to his crotch for a shameful moment.
A quiet moment passes between us before he says, “Can I admit something?”
I stop the machine and look at him, nodding.
“I’m… very aroused right now.”
I’m suddenly breathless, my mouth dry as I struggle to respond. “It’s… probably the location. The vibration through your hip bone, down to your groin. With the cage, the pressure… that makes sense.”
“Yeah… that makes sense.” He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s mostly being with you, though.”
I keep my focus on the tattoo, filling in the effervescent candy apple red. It’s my favorite red, rich with blue undertones, vibrant and breathtaking, but crimson too in some light. It looks perfect against his slightly sunkissed skin tone. Then again, I don’t think any color would look bad on Trace.
“Ivy,” he murmurs. “I mean that.”
Heat dances over my cheeks, sliding down my neck and back. Beneath my bodysuit, my nipples crest as my arousal ramps.
I glance behind me, and then around me, knowing what I’m doing is a risk. Knowing it’s disrespectful to Deuce.
But no one is here anymore.
It’s just us and some cameras. With footage we can technically erase.
I pull off a glove and slip my hand beneath his t-shirt, rubbing my fingertips around his nipple, flicking and pinching the tip. He sucks in a breath, then exhales, huffing out a rugged groan.
“Fuuck,” he sighs, squirming a little in the seat.
“Hold still, Mr. Wade,” I reply, using the name I know he wants to go by now. I respect that he wants to turn over a new leaf, and I will support him in any way I can. That’s what you do for the ones you love.
Stealing my hand away, I put a glove back on and return my focus to the tattoo, happy that I'm almost done. Not that I want it to end—I think I could live in a happy bubble of tattooing him forever.
“Almost done,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady and calm, as if I’m unaffected by his squirmy state. After a glove and needle change, I use the last cap of ink for the explosion, using Barbie pink for the fade. Beneath me, he stays still, but when my eyes move to his, I find him in a state.
Droopy eyelids, lips parted, nostrils flaring, one of his hands now needlessly stroking his chest. “Ivy,” he breathes, my name rolling off his tongue like smoke on the water.
When I make the last pass, I begin the process of cleaning him up, ignoring his calls for my attention. The more time that passes, the more I feel the shift in dynamic.
He’s so used to women bending to his will, falling to his feet, giving him anything he wants. But with the key to his cock around my neck and him lying beneath me, my name on his lips, him begging for my attention, I know this is exactly what he needs.
Freedom. Freedom from being Trace Calhoun.
“I like that you dropped Calhoun,” I tell him as I make the final cleaning pass over his new ink.
“I’m ready to move on, to move forward,” he says, my gaze sliding to his as I snap off the black rubber gloves and toss them in the bin. “With you.”
Taking advantage of sitting in a chair on wheels, I roll myself up the length of his body, and lean over him, stroking my hand through his hair. With our eyes locked, I sift my other hand up his shirt, and find his nipple again.
“Fuck,” he groans, “I had no idea I liked that until now.”
“Until me,” I correct.
“Until you,” he agrees hoarsely. “Kiss me,” he groans as I make slow, sensual circles around one nipple, sliding my hand along his carved, warm chest to find the other. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for two days.”
With a tough pluck of his nipple, he groans and I smile down, slowly lowering my mouth to his.
Dusting my lips against his, I close my eyes, absorbing the warmth radiating from his mouth, and the electric buzz in my veins of being so close to him. His breath is mint and coffee scented, and when I finally let my lips crush against his, the stubble on his chin grates my skin and sends a pulse between my legs.
Opening my mouth, I let my tongue discover his, taking in all that coffee and mint, my legs clenching. He squirms in my chair as I drag my thumb over his nipple, my heart pounding as a feral groan tears out of him, flooding my mouth.
I break the kiss and smile down, loving the needfulness in his eyes, the gentle swell in his lips.
“Ivy,” he groans.
“You already said that,” I tease softly, flicking his nipple again as his core tightens. He attempts to move beneath me but with a soft yet stern shake of my head, his body relaxes.
“I can’t—” he breathes, the ring in his nostril gleaming as he struggles for breath, his forehead glazed in sweat.
“Can’t what?” I ask, licking my lips, my cunt pulsing as his eyes follow the tip of my tongue.
“I’m losing my mind here,” he groans, urging us both to look down at his crotch.
“A firecracker,” he breathes, finally taking note of the new ink on his body. With his pants pushed down, the curves of his lean hips exposed, the thatch of dark hair poking out, I’m hit with a wave of arousal so hard that wetness blooms between my legs, flooding my panties.
“A firecracker,” I repeat, moving my eyes back to his as I take my hand from his nipple, shucking his jeans down past his cock. My thumb grazes the cage, skimming his hot flesh that pokes through the metal, causing him to curse and growl.
“Fuck, Ivy, Jesus Christ, I don’t think I—” He loses track of his sentence as I replace my hand beneath his shirt, on his chest, and get back to work teasing his nipples.
“Trace Wade,” I murmur, dusting my lips against his in the most teasing kiss, “are you going to come for me?”
“Ivy,” he sputters, his core clenching, his rapid heart pounding against my palm as I give his nipple a final flick.
A moment later, he groans, and it’s so feral and wild that my chest vibrates from it, and then heat—so much heat— is splashing onto my arm.
He’s coming, and as much as I want to see his trapped cock spurting everywhere from my subtle teasing, I keep my eyes on him. He returns the contact, his jaw falling apart only slightly as he orgasms from the tease.
I could come from this. From bringing a man like him to his proverbial knees from so little physical touch and so much mental control.
An array of emotions swarms me as I finally lower my mouth to his. His tongue lunges into mine, discovering every part of me as I process the moment.
I’m proud of him for letting himself have this. For not needing control or booze. I’m proud of me for doing it— for having the courage to do it. For being brave enough to show him that I can help. For doing something I myself have never done, but having the confidence to try it.
And the last thought that crushes me as I break the kiss and finally look at the mess on his belly and chest? I’m beyond wanting him.
I have to have him.
Forever.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” he rasps, pushing up to his elbows as we both take in the beautiful mess.
With our eyes idling together, I lower my mouth to his belly, and kiss my way through the mess, licking my lips every few inches. He groans as I taste his cum, slowly showing him my appreciation and love while cleaning him up only slightly.
After a minute of cum-filled kisses, I sit up and smile, a pearly drop still in the corner of my mouth. He curses his pleasure as I push the last drop of him into my mouth, and reach for a paper towel to clean him up.
“Ivy,” he says, taking the towel from my hand to wipe himself up.
“You keep saying that,” I tease, reaching behind me to release the key from my throat. He outstretches his palm and I lower the key there. “Try again.”
“Thank you,” he replies quickly, his brow pinched in thought as he tosses away the paper towel, reaching behind himself to tug his shirt off over his head. Watching his elbow jut out, his bicep flex as he pulls it off tests me— I’ve never been this wet and swollen before. Ever. “And… I need to taste you. Watching you fucking do whatever it is you just did, making me rocket the fuck off without a touch— I need to get my mouth on you. Right now. Please.”
He sits up, swinging his legs off the chair, reaching for me.
I pull back. “Not here. This is my workplace. That would be hugely unprofessional.”
His nostrils flare. “My house. Now.”
I rise, grabbing my things from my cupboard, handing him our standard tattoo aftercare bag.
“First, you need to unlock,” I nod to his caged cock which is still exposed, and God is that fucking hot. “Then you need to lock up,” I smile, referring to the shop.
“Wait for me. Ride with me,” he says, his tone bordering on desperate and begging. I love it.
“No.” I smile, despite the fact I want to ride with him. He has to work harder. He needs to learn that things worth having require hard work. “I’ll meet you.” I smile, and so does he, and in my whole life, I have never, ever seen a man move so damn fast.