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Rhett’s hands are gentle as he cleans my skin. Goosebumps involuntarily rise along my entire body, and I let out a soft gasp when his hand bumps into my pussy. He’s being so careful. Trying to remain so professional. But the sexual tension in the air is thick and heavy, clouding both of our minds.
Once he’s done prepping my skin, he picks up the tattoo gun and moves the ink to a more convenient spot for himself. “Ready?”
“Yes.” I let my head fall back. I don’t want to watch this. The control freak in me will be trying to take over, when what he really needs is to be left alone. He’s mostly competent, so it can’t be that bad, can it?
The softness in his expression is all I can see as he leans in, touching me lightly as he positions himself between my legs. He turns the tattoo gun on, bringing the buzzing sound to life. Truthfully, the sound calms me. It’s one of the constants I’ve had in my life for the last several years, and my work as a tattoo artist has always been an outlet for me. As a creative, the act of permanently marking skin with ink in my own strokes and designs brings me to life. It’s something I’ve always allowed myself to hyperfocus on, and it’s the one thing I’ve never lost interest in.
I breathe low, shallow breaths as he brings the needle to my inner thigh. The sharp ping radiates through me when he makes contact with my skin, but I force myself to stay still. The pain almost feels therapeutic for a split second before he pulls back, glancing up at me for reassurance. I nod, encouraging him to continue.
Rhett’s hand is steady as he drags the needle across my skin. He’s pressing harder than I would, but I can take the pain.
“Am I doing okay?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“I can’t see it, but it feels like you’re doing fine,” I admit, not letting my eyes leave his face.
Rhett gives me a reassured smile, then goes back to his art piece. His tongue slips through his lips as he concentrates, giving it his all. I’m imagining his strokes in my head as his hand moves, and I know he’s almost done. He dips the needle in ink one last time before finishing off the last T.
“Want to see?”
I sit up, keeping my legs spread as I twist myself to see what he’s done. My heart swells at the letters of his name. They’re not perfect, but for his first time? He did incredible. It’s far better than anything I did my first few times, and I feel like that’s saying a lot considering I made a career out of it.
Our faces are only a few inches apart and we’re sitting on the floor in the most intimate position. Perhaps it’s how a real, normal couple would sit together on a Saturday night. Carefree and gentle. Soft and sweet.
My eyes trace the lines on Rhett’s face one at a time, memorizing them. He has the most sheepish grin on his face, which makes me smile. I can’tnotsmile at him. Even through all the fucked up shit he’s done, he’s a real person underneath all of the unhinged chaos. He’s genuine and kind, and now he’s shown me the softer side of himself. I’m beginning to like all of his different sides.
“It looks good,” I smile. “You did great.”
Chapter Eleven
RHETT
Steam clouds the room, thick and suffocating, as the scalding water pounds against my skin, but I barely register the burn. My hand moves faster, gripping my cock with bruising force, every stroke driven by the images flashing through my mind. My girl sprawled out in the bath, her back arched, her lips parted in breathless moans, fingers buried deep inside her. Fuck, the way she said my name as she came is a fucking brand seared into my brain, a fire I can’t put out.
I slam my forehead against the cool tile, letting out a low, guttural growl as I stroke myself harder, chasing the release I fucking need. Every sound she made echoes in my skull. The soft, slick rhythm of her fingers sliding in and out of her pussy, the way her body trembled, water rippling around her as she gasped for air.
She’s fucking mine. Every inch of her belongs to me, and I’ve never wanted to claim someone so completely, or mark them in every way except for her. The memory of her slipping her fingers into her mouth, tasting herself with that wicked gleam in her eyes—it drives me within inches of the fucking edge. I’m close, too close, but I force myself to slow down, to draw out the torment.
I should have her under me right now, not in my fucking head. She’s branded as mine, and I’m hers, so I should be able to take my little nightmare whenever the fuck I want. Wherever I want.
I glance down at my cock, my hand tightening around the steel barbells of my Jacob’s ladder, and there it is—her name, tattooed on my flesh between the piercings in the most perfect cursive font. The fresh ink burns under my palm in the same way it did when the needle first hit.
Cara.
Permanent, unbreakable, carved into me just like I’ve carved myself into her.
Like I carved Jonah’s head for her.
The flashback of the look on her face when she saw my little gift does me in.
I groan, my strokes growing frantic as the sight of her name on my cock again tips me over the edge. I see her face in my mind, hear her moans, and the memory of her skin under mine pushes me past the point of no return. I come hard, my entire body shuddering, my release hitting the tile as I grip the edge of the wall for support. It’s intense, every muscle locking tight, my mind blanking with nothing but her—her name, her body, the way she’s marked me as hers.
For a moment, all I can do is stand there, breath ragged, my heart slamming against my chest as the water cascades over me. My head rests against the cool tile, steam swirling around me like smoke, and the satisfaction slowly settles in my bones. But underneath it all, the craving remains.
I need her.
I glance down at the ink on my cock again, her name clear, sharp, unmistakable. And then, there’s mine, tattooed on her perfect flesh. My brand, my mark, etched into her skin the same way. I can still remember the way she shivered when the needlehit her, the way she looked at the ceiling with wide eyes, biting her lip as she took it, knowing she was mine now, forever.
Cara.
