Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(62)

I walk up behind him, covering his eyes with my hands and kiss his neck.

“Dammit, Cord. How many times do I have to tell you? Not in front of the customers.”

“Shut up.” I laugh. He tosses his sketchbook to the floor and pulls me onto his lap, my arms automatically circling his neck. I already feel lighter being around him, but heavier at the same time, knowing our time here has an expiration date.

“Hey, Sally. Thought you might chicken out.”

“Pft. Do I look like a pussy?”

“Mmm, you are what I eat,” he says, wiggling his brows.

“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.” I bite my lip, suddenly feeling a little apprehensive.

“So, are we doing this?”

“We’re doing this,” I confirm.

“Do you want to see what I’ve been working on?” He flicks his chin toward the drawing pad on the floor.

“Nuh-uh. I want it to be a surprise.”

Dare pins me with a skeptical look. “You don’t want to see something that’s going to go on your body forever?”

“Nope,” I say resolutely. “Surprise me. I trust you.”

Trust. A foreign concept in my life. But, somehow, I do trust him, and not just with the tattoo.

“Okay, then. You’re not allowed to be pissed if you hate it.”

“Just do it.” I roll my eyes, hopping onto the black leather chair.

“I designed it for the top of your thigh, up to about here,” he says, pressing a finger into my hip, “but I could tweak it to make it fit between your breasts if you’d rather that. It would look good there, too.”

I almost make fun of him for saying breasts. He slipped into professional mode so quickly.

“Thigh sounds good. How do you want me?” The question is unintentionally suggestive. Dare shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Lie back on the table. Let’s do your right side.”

I do as he says, taking off my vest first. I kick my boots off as Dare takes my vest from me and throws it over another chair. Might as well be comfortable as possible as a needle digs into my flesh.

“I’m going to have to pull your pants down. Do you want to go to the private room?”

“I’m good.”

Dare nods, slipping his fingers into my waistband. He tugs them down to mid-thigh, then pushes my hoodie up to sit above my waist. The leather chair is cold against my bare skin.

“This okay?”

“Mhm.”

Dare pulls the band of my plain white thong down to sit where my pants do before turning around to put on some gloves. When he turns back around, he has a wet paper towel in his hand.

“This is just for the stencil,” he explains as he applies a generous amount of the soap and water mix. There’s something so sexy about seeing Dare in his element.

“I’m going to put the stencil on now, so try to stay still.”

“Okay.”

I look at the ceiling, feeling him place the wax paper onto the side of my thigh where the band of my underwear sits, ending right above my hipbone. He peels it back slowly.

“This is the part where I’d ask if you were happy with the placement, but…”

“Just do it,” I say before I cave. I’m dying to know what it is. For all I know, he decided to put a giant penis on my hip.

“I’m going to do a small line first, just so you know how it feels.”

I hear the buzz of the tattoo gun, and when it touches my skin, I’m surprised that it doesn’t hurt. Not much worse than getting a scratch.

“You good?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” he says, giving my knee a squeeze. Such a simple, yet endearing gesture. “This will probably take about two hours if you want to do it all in one go.”

“I can do it,” I insist.

“Let me know when you need a break.”

I nod, and he takes that as his cue to begin. It’s not bad at first, but like picking an open wound, over and over, it starts to hurt after a while. There’s also something exhilarating about it—cathartic, even. I wonder if that’s how it started for Dare—as a way to purge his pain.

As I stare at the beams in the ceiling, I wonder what he wants to talk to me about. I’m dying to ask, but I’m also trying to let him be the one to bring it up. Now doesn’t feel like the time to push.

I’m not sure how long passes before Matty’s face comes into my line of sight.

“Look who’s sober,” he says, hovering over me, and I flip him off. Turning to Dare, he says, “That’s sick,” jerking his chin toward my thigh.

“Thanks. Now stop distracting my client,” Dare replies, but there’s no bite in his tone. Matty holds up his hands in surrender as he walks away.

“Can you turn onto your side?” Dare asks, pulling the machine away from my leg. I do as he says, rolling onto my right. When he doesn’t say anything or make a move to continue, I look behind me, careful not to look at my tattoo, only to find him staring at my very exposed, very bare ass.

“This was a bad idea,” he says, seemingly to himself, blue eyes full of heat.

“Get back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smirks, shaking his head before rolling his chair toward me. The tattoo machine whirs back to life. He leans over me, one gloved hand on my hip, wiping away the excess ink every once in a while with a napkin, while the other one controls the needle that digs into my skin incessantly.