Chapter 1 #2
“Hell yeah, that’s my girl. Come on.” He offered a hand to help her rise, then led her to his corner of the shop, the wooden floors creaking along the way.
Jennifer studied each station they passed as a means of distraction.
Brightly colored Mardi Gras beads adorned one, while Caliph’s was much simpler.
Sparse actually. Just an old family photo sat in a frame next to his equipment.
“Did you eat breakfast like I said?” Caliph asked.
She nodded. The toast she’d consumed had tasted like sawdust, but she’d choked it down.
“Pretty blouse. Take it off.”
She’d covered the tube top she’d bought especially for today with a blouse. She’d had to force herself to keep the top four buttons open because she didn’t want to look like a complete prude in front of Caliph.
She could have walked down the street in just the tube top as it was unseasonably warm.
You had to love January in New Orleans. The temperature could be fifty degrees one day and eighty the next.
For the past few days, they’d been riding in the upper seventies with blue skies and full sunshine that made it feel even hotter.
Despite the gorgeous weather, it had been uncomfortable for her to walk out of her apartment, sans bra, in the revealing outfit. She wasn’t exactly lacking in the breast department and the only time she took off her double D bra was in the privacy of her own home.
She tugged the blouse off, folding and placing it on a nearby chair, sighing softly as she acknowledged the blouse was far from pretty and much closer to plain.
The best description for her wardrobe was conservative.
She did a mental eye roll. That was being nice.
The truth was her clothing—like her—was boring.
God, why couldn’t she shake that word from her vocabulary? Marcus had walked out on her almost a year earlier. It was time to let it go.
It was actually the arrival of the final divorce papers in the mail shortly before Christmas—happy holidays to me, she thought sardonically—that had jarred her out of her numb state and convinced her she needed to do something unpredictable and adventurous.
When New Year’s Eve arrived, she’d decided—with the help of a bottle of Pinot Grigio—this would be the year she sorted her shit out.
She was going to break free of her same old routine and force herself to try different things.
Unfortunately, so far, the wildest thing she’d conjured up was getting this tattoo. She was so lame.
She glanced at the table before her.
“You’re going to lie on your stomach, Jen. I need to sit down to work. I’m steadier that way.”
She blushed as she crawled onto the table. She wasn’t sure why, but the position made her feel vulnerable. Maybe it was because her dirty mind had invented too many fantasies the past two weeks about her getting horizontal with the gentle giant currently looming over her.
Then she considered how he’d shortened her name, calling her Jen. It was something only her family and closest friends did and it made her feel more at ease.
He didn’t speak again as he put her into the position he wanted, lowering her tube top a wee bit as he lightly touched and cleaned her skin.
She’d elected to have the tattoo put on her upper back, near her right shoulder.
That way it would be hidden beneath her clothing.
The owner of the hotel didn’t have a policy about managers and tattoos, but that was probably because she seemed like the person least likely to ever get one.
Even so, she didn’t want to test the theory. She needed her job.
Then she recalled her wardrobe once more. With the exception of when she went swimming, this tat would probably never see the light of day. Bare skin wasn’t part of her repertoire.
Neither of them spoke as he sprayed liquid soap to the spot and transferred the image on her skin.
Jennifer took the time to study his face as he concentrated on his work, his warm hands gently smoothing the paper over her skin.
It occurred to her she didn’t have a clue how old he was.
His face was tanned; his jaw covered with dark stubble that indicated he probably hadn’t shaved this morning.
There were laugh lines around his eyes she had the irresistible urge to run her fingertips over.
The man could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty.
His fingers felt like magic, firing up some hot buttons that had lain dormant for far too long. She struggled to pull air into her lungs.
Caliph must have mistaken her arousal for nervousness. “Relax, beauty. You don’t want to tense your muscles like that. The reality of this is it’s going to hurt, but if you could loosen up a little, it’ll be easier for you.”
“Okay,” she whispered, closing her eyes and cursing her suddenly tight throat, afraid of how she’d react to the pain. She wanted this damn tattoo. She really did. So why was she acting like a scared mouse? Why couldn’t she summon even an ounce of bravery? Caliph probably thought she was a wuss.
He leaned closer. “Jen. Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, trying not to reveal what his close proximity did to her. Mercifully, her position facedown on the table hid the fact her nipples had just gone hard, but it was more difficult to shield her flushing face and accelerated breathing.
He stroked her cheek gently with one finger. She pressed her legs together, trying to calm her arousal. Her pussy clenched hungrily and her panties were definitely damp.
“I’m finished with the sketch. Now comes the hard part. If it starts to be too much, tell me to stop and I will.”
“Should I have a safe word?” She’d meant the words as a risqué joke, amazed she’d found the balls for off-color humor, but something about Caliph made her think Dom.
After her husband walked out, Jennifer had turned to books—reading voraciously for hours each night after work.
Her love for historical romances soon drifted toward the erotic genre when the sweet, closed-door love scenes stopped doing it for her.
She’d gone through a shifter phase, then a ménage one.
These days she couldn’t get enough of BDSM stories.
Caliph’s gaze darkened and Jennifer reconsidered her previous assessment about his gentle personality. This man was no puppy dog. He was pure Pit Bull. Foolishly, that discovery didn’t make her want to run. It only ramped up her desires even more.
“I was just kidding,” she hastily added. “Very bad joke.”
Caliph didn’t reply, didn’t let her off the hook easily. She fought the desire to stand and walk out of the shop. What on earth had possessed her to make such an inappropriate comment to a virtual stranger? She’d always considered common sense one of her better traits. Where the hell had that gone?
Finally, a slight smile tipped his lips. “You’re an interesting woman, Jen. I like that.”
Interesting? It was on the tip of her tongue to correct his misapprehension. He’d just caught her on a good day.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded once, then braced herself for the first pierce of the needle.
He’d warned her about the pain, but holy shit!
“Ohmigod! Jesus Christ! Fuck me!”
Caliph chuckled. “If you insist.”
It took a second for the haze of pain to clear enough for her to understand his joke.
She glared at him. “That hurt.”
“Never said it wouldn’t. You wanna go on?”
No. She didn’t. But as Caliph said, fate was a wicked bitch and she chose that moment to arrive and bless Jennifer with courage. Or was it pride?
“Yes,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Once again, he murmured his standard good girl, the compliment inciting an unfamiliar warmth inside her.
The tattoo gun fired up again, provoking another long stream of curse words to fly from her lips. Caliph grinned, but he didn’t stop this time.
For several moments, he worked in silence as Jennifer tried to adapt to the pain. The initial hurt had started to wane and soon she learned to regulate her breathing as she anticipated his moves. Before too long, the buzz of the gun turned to white noise and she actually became drowsy.
Caliph must have sensed when she’d finally managed to relax because he broke the silence, his question rousing her just before she drifted off.
“Why a daisy?”
She jerked slightly and he apologized softly.
“Sorry. Were you falling asleep?”
She shook her head, lying so he wouldn’t feel bad. “No.”
He repeated the question. “Why a daisy tattoo?”
Jennifer considered her response, wishing he hadn’t asked. The real reason was too personal, too revealing, too damn girly. She didn’t want to know what Caliph would think if she told him the truth.
“It’s my favorite flower.” That much was true. Maybe that would be enough of a reason for him.
Unfortunately the man was too astute. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
She frowned, feeling an odd need to protest his dismissal. “It really is my favorite.”
“I’m sure it is. How old are you?”
She tried to understand his bizarre switch in subjects. “I’m going to be forty in August.”
He smiled. “You know, most women would have said thirty-nine rather than confess to hitting the big four-oh so soon.”
She considered the truth of that. “Forty is coming whether I admit it or not.”
Her answer pleased him. She could see it in his expression. It increased the warmth inside her, leaving her confused about why his happiness left her feeling so content, gratified.
“Glad to hear you’re not one of those women who has issues with age.”