Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

CARA

" I miss work," I admit to Rhett as a man on the TV screen tattoos a rose onto the skin of a young woman.

He checked in with Jeremy this morning on my phone, and apparently all is well in the tattoo shop. All of the appointments have been running smoothly and on time, even with Jeremy taking over my bookings. I still feel bad. And now watching this man on TV tattoo someone is driving me crazy.

I miss that strong vibration in my hand. The scent of the tattoo shop when I walk in almost every morning. Cracking jokes with a few of the guys. I miss it all.

Rhett picks up the remote, turning down the volume on the TV before meeting my gaze. There's a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and it scares me.

"What?" I ask, my heart pounding.

"I have an idea," he beams like a kid on Christmas. "Tattoo your name on me, and I'll do mine on you. That way, everyone will know how real this is. They'll know you're mine and I'm yours."

My heart sinks, but I show no emotion on my face. The idea of having this man's name permanently etched into my skin makes me want to fold in on myself. It'll take one hell of a cover up to hide it as soon as this is over, but if anyone can do a great cover up, it's me.

He looks so happy. Like this is the best idea he's ever come up with and I already know that I'll completely crush him if I shoot down his idea. I don't think I have much of a say anyway. He's taken and done everything he's wanted since the moment we locked eyes. This isn't any different. If he wants our names tattooed on each other, he's going to ensure it happens.

"Have you ever used a tattoo gun?" I ask, hiding the nervousness in my voice.

"No," he shakes his head. "But I've spent enough time with my tattoo artist to know a thing or two by now. I watched her do this entire piece," he says, holding up his arm, which is covered in a full sleeve of tattoos.

Her?

He watches her?

Who the fuck is she? His entire body is covered in tattoos. She's touched every part of him. Parts I've never even seen.

I try to calm myself as the unexpected jealous rage takes over. Who do I think I am? I'm nothing more than a hostage to him and I'm sitting here thinking about wanting to cut the head off the bitch he calls his tattoo artist. I want to be his tattoo artist.

Forcing away the thought and pushing it down for later, I smile as I say, "I'll teach you."

The biggest grin spreads across Rhett's face. "I'll be your apprentice."

A laugh escapes me and I smile at him. "Yes, you'll be my apprentice." I slap my hand down on his thigh as I jump up and off the couch. "I have an extra tattoo gun and kit that I keep at home. I'll grab it."

We sit on the floor beside an outlet where I plug in my tattoo gun. After setting up our makeshift workstation, I feel a little less nervous. Knowing Rhett, he won't be soft with me. Everything up until now has been demanding and soul-consuming.

"I can tattoo you first, and I'll explain everything as I'm doing it." I pull black gloves over my hands. "Where do you want it?"

Rhett's voice does not waiver as he says, "My cock, little nightmare."

My eyes widen as I take in his words. "Your cock? Do you realize how much that's going to hurt?"

"I mean, I have my cock pierced, so how much worse could a tattoo of your name be?"

He's not wrong. It probably won't be as bad as having multiple metal bars shoved through his dick and the healing time won't be nearly as long. I keep forgetting how much of a psycho he is. He loves the pain. He lives for this shit.

"Okay," I nod, deciding it would be stupid to argue. If this is what he wants, this is what he'll get. "Pull your pants down then lay back so that you can see what I'm doing."

Rhett does as I say, wiggling both his pants and his briefs below his ass before leaning back on his elbow.

I've tattooed dicks before, but this feels different. He's watching my every movement, so intent on learning before I hand the gun to him. Swallowing hard, I force myself to breathe as I reach for his dick. First, I clean it with a soapy water solution in a spray bottle, and then I pour an antiseptic solution onto a gauze pad, applying it in circular motions. I wait for it to dry, and then I apply a thin layer of vaseline to the area. Each step of my routine makes him grow harder, but he stays silent. He's fully erect by the time I'm ready to pick up my tattoo gun.

Glancing up at him for the first time since touching him, I find his eyes locked on what I'm doing. I expected to find him panting and horny, but he looks surprisingly calm. Almost like he's trying to take this seriously.

I clear my throat, and then ask him, "Ready?"

"Yes," he nods. "I'm watching."

"I see that," I tease, giving him a soft smile. "Try not to move."

Anticipating a smartass remark, I give him a wide smile, but he doesn't. He remains focused and serious. Blowing out the air in my lungs, I steady myself as I lean in, letting my face get dangerously close to his dick. He's still rock hard, but he's ready.

The tattoo gun comes to life in my hands, buzzing loudly. I dip the needle in ink and prep it, and then I bring it to his velvety skin. He doesn't even flinch when the needle penetrates the first few layers of his skin, so I keep going. It takes me no more than a minute or two to draw my name in pretty cursive lettering. He listens to each word I say over the hum of the gun, nodding as he processes what I'm telling him.

I turn the gun off, and now it's almost my turn. I apply a clear bandage over his new ink before changing out the needle and cleaning our workstation, replacing everything that needs to be fresh. Rhett takes the gun from my hand, turning it on to feel the buzz, and then turns it off.

His voice is soft as he says, "I want my name on your inner thigh. Anyone who gets close enough to see it will be dead before they can finish reading it."

The words come out sweetly, but I know the truth behind them. He's not kidding. He's not making a joke. He's dead fucking serious and would kill any of my future partners if he's not rotting in prison. I'm reasonably certain not even prison would stop him. He's too determined. Too possessive.

I don't argue. "Okay," I breathe as I pull down my sweatpants, leaving me in a lacy black thong. "Remember not to drag it too hard or you'll make me bleed more than I should."

"I'll be soft," he smiles, looking up at me as he pulls my little black gloves over his hands. They're too small for him, but they'll do. It's better than nothing.

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't not smile 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."