Page 48 of Playboy’s Purgatory

Breathing on my skin.

Looking at my skin.

For hours.

“First,” he beckons me toward his tattoo chair, “we get the paperwork out of the way. I’m not charging you, but I have to make sure everything is above board.”

He hands me a clipboard filled with normal legal jargon including that if I sign, I’m stating that I have eaten within the last few hours, am sober, and am getting tattooed of my own free will. My eyebrows pull together when I read the line about not being impaired by alcohol.

“Do you a lot of people get tattooed drunk?” I can’t help but ask the question, my curiosity momentarily overtaking my worry about this whole set-up.

“They try,” Playboy teases. When he smirks, it goes straight to my damn clit. Which is a problem. “I won’t say that I’ve never tattooed a drunk person,” he shakes his head with a look of wry amusement on his face, “since I have a kit at the clubhouse. Drunk people come up with horrible tattoo ideas, but I have standards.”

When he says that he puffs up his chest slightly. I can’t help but giggle. He’s ridiculous.

I can just picture him in the clubhouse trying to talk someone out of getting a penis tattooed somewhere on them. I’m not sure why it’s where my mind goes first, but I have zero doubt that it’s accurate.

“Let me guess—dicks?”

“Yes,” Playboy exclaims, his hands flying up in the air, “so many dicks.” He shakes his head, the move full of chagrin. His voice holds a hint of tender fondness which has me tilting my head to study him. “I had to talk Diesel out of getting a dick with hairy balls wearing chaps, a sombrero, and a poncho. I think there was a mustache involved too.”

He shivers slightly as if the memory is just as repulsive as living through it the first time. I’m not sure if I should be offended, curious, or shocked by what Diesel wanted tattooed.

“The man should not drink moonshine, which is a shame with our own moonshine distillery and all,” he fills in, even though I didn’t ask.

After signing my name and handing him back the clipboard, he looks it over. It makes me wonder if he’s a little nervous too.

“I can drink moonshine just fine,” he assures me and my eyebrows furrow together. He’s rambling. I shouldn’t find it adorable.

“Did you ever get your cake?” I’m not sure where the question comes from or why I ask it at all.

Playboy’s eyes light up even as he pouts. “I forgot it on the table that day,” he admits and I remember rushing out of Dolly’s. Oops. “I was thinking about going and grabbing a slice after this. Would you be interested in joining me?”

My lips part in surprise and I’m momentarily thrown. He folded that in so damn smoothly. I’m kind of impressed.

“How about you think about that,” he offers, giving me an out even though he doesn’t need to. It feels like he’s taking a metaphysical step back and I find myself taking a deep breath. “We’ll break each section of the tattoo up. I’d like to do the middle section last. It’ll require me to draw directly on your skin for much of it.”

He swallows hard and clears his throat. Something heated flashes in his eyes, but it’s there and gone so quickly I’m not entirely sure it was there at all.

“Draw on me?” The question comes out a little shaky.

“Yeah, I’ll use a marker to draw directly on your skin and use those lines to fill in the vines there.” He points toward the framed art on his wall, and I can see now why the simple vines and leaves would need to be a little more organic. “I’ve created the stencil from the original drawing, but if there are colors you’d prefer to highlight or leave out, I can easily adjust those.” He shakes his head slightly and grins. “If you wanted me to rework the stencil, I could do that too.”

“No,” I’m quick to insist, “I like it just the way it is. I love the mix of colors and the balance between what is old and what is being taken over by what is coming back to life.”

His face smooths out and awe fills his eyes. When he leans toward me, for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I freeze and my heart starts to race.

“You know,” his voice is a low husky sound I want to wrap around me, “most people look at it and see something dying, not coming back to life.”

“Huh,” I huff and take another look at the framed art. “I guess I can see it, but I prefer to look at it like spring, not winter, ya know?”

He chuckles softly and nods. His hands land on his thighs and the moment is broken. “The big question is whether you want to start on your arm and shoulder or on your leg.”

“I think you should call it my flank.” I shift in the chair a little and rub my hand over my hip and the top of my outer thigh.

His eyes track the movement, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip in a move that has my nipples going hard. Shit.

“I’m not calling it your,” he gasps slightly before grunting, “your flank.”