Chapter 2

2

TYLER

A fairy in the midst of us mere mortals. That's what she looks like.

She sits on the sectional right in front of the leather tattoo chair. Her red pixie cut frames her small face and button nose perfectly. Her eyes seem too big for her face, which only serves to make her look more ethereal. Otherworldly. Like a goddess.

Under the bright light of the studio, I can finally see her eyes, which remind me of bright pools of water in summer.

Jesus Christ. Look at me being poetic and shit.

The first time I saw her, I thought she was beautiful. Now when I finally have the chance to look closer, she fucking robs me of breath. For a moment, I forget why I'm here and that my client is about to arrive any minute now.

With my head down and my hands busy with the prep, I look like I'm not paying her any attention. Wrong. I have the perfect angle to see her reflection in the mirror, and I can't stop staring.

She's looking at me too—out of curiosity or something else, I have no idea. And it makes me clumsy. I end up dropping the razor twice like a fucking amateur.

I drop all pretense of focus and lift my gaze to her, which makes her eyes widen and dart to the posters behind me. It's exactly how someone looks when they've been caught staring, and the laughter leaving my lips surprises me.

"You ever been to a tattoo shop?" I ask, checking the time and realizing we still have around ten to fifteen minutes alone.

She runs her slender hands through her short hair. "No. Never."

"You did ask me to take you anywhere."

"I did." She sighs and chews on her bottom lip. And fuck, now my eyes drop to those pink luscious lips that look as soft as a pillow. "Sir, I'm so sorry for dragging you into this."

"Sir? Call me Tyler. I'm Tyler Reid." The image of her biting her lip is seared into my retina, and I need to distract myself. Otherwise, I'll find myself in an uncomfortable, awkward situation. "Was that your boyfriend?"

The side of her mouth lifts. "He was, and I'm Maura Beck, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Maura. And I'm sorry we met under such weird circumstances."

She stands and reaches over the tattoo chair to extend a hand.

Normally, I would shrug and say, "That's not my thing." But something pushes me to do the same. My brain screams and reminds me how much I loathe touching without gloves on, which is why the only people I voluntarily touch are my clients. Flinching away from any form of touch is mostly muscle memory for me.

For years, I associated touch with pain, and it took me a while before I could tattoo my clients without feeling like I was about to pass out.

Most of my childhood and teenage years were spent walking on eggshells around my father. If I so much as sneezed at dinner or breathed the wrong way, I would show up in school the next day with my back or legs covered in bruises.

Of course, no one could tell. No one knew. Dad made sure never to hit me where it would show, like my face, my arms, or my neck.

That fear wormed its way so deep into my being and my unconscious that just the thought of being touched by another sent me into a spiral. It made me hate myself because even a simple handshake triggered an irrational internal reaction from me.

Becoming a tattoo artist makes sense to me because, this way, I have control. I am the one touching other people, with their consent, of course, and if there's any pain involved, it's from the needle piercing the skin. No one comes out bruised, traumatized, or seriously hurt.

I don't know why, but at this moment, I'd rather chop off my ear than not take the chance to brush my skin against hers.

I can't not touch her. Everything I buried within me rushes to the surface—desire and the primal need to touch. And it's only been less than an hour since I met her.

My fingers wrap around hers, and I jolt at the electricity zapping down my spine, making my limbs tingle. She must feel the same because she opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and closes it again.

What the fuck?

When she pulls her hand back, I almost growl in disapproval, feeling the emptiness in the air already.

I'm overcome by a sense of hunger I've never felt before. Looking at her bare shoulders, the clavicles peeking out from her sleeveless dress, and the pulse pounding between them, I want to touch her. I want to touch her so badly I ache.

The realization is so unexpected that I drop my hand and slump back on the plastic folding chair, reeling with the intensity of my emotions and feeling unmoored, like the floor has vanished from under me.

"Am I gonna distract you or something? I could stay by the woman at the front desk."

I look back up to see her playing with her earlobe, a look of uncertainty on her lovely face. What did she ask me? Oh, right.

I clear my throat. "Nah, you're good. Besides, you don't want to sit by Erika. Her girlfriend's the jealous type. When she gets jealous, they fight. When they fight, Erika would start giving me shit." She laughs, and I smile at the sound. "So, no. Stay here. Our lives will be more peaceful this way."

Maura clasps her hands behind her and walks toward the Polaroid photos tacked to the wall. Those are all my original designs, and I'm damn proud of them.

"Wow, you're good." She throws me a soft smile over her shoulder.

"Thanks."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Almost twenty years. I took a part-time job at a tattoo parlor when I was sixteen."

She turns around and digs her shoe into the floor, a flush creeping on her cheeks. "I've always wanted one."

"A tattoo?"

Maura nods.

"Then, why didn't you?"

She lifts her shoulders. "Martin forbade me."

"Martin? The guy you left?"

"Yeah. My now ex."

She's single, and I try not to get excited at the fact. As if I actually have a chance with her. "He deserves it." I look at my watch again and then back at her. "Is he gonna be a problem for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"He looked like the type of guy who didn't take no for an answer. Are you gonna be in any danger from him?"

Maura lowers her lashes, her forehead creasing. "I haven't considered that. I hope not."

"Do you live alone?"

"Y-yes."

"Does he have a key to your place?"

Her head snaps up, one hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God. He does."

"Send him a message first thing in the morning, asking for your keys back. From now on, I can fetch you from your place and take you to your work and vice versa." I rarely speak this much with other people except Erika, but here I am, offering my chauffeuring services like I don't have anything better to do than drive her back and forth.

"Oh, you'd do that? I mean, I know how to drive, and I have a car, but I honestly will feel better with you around."

This gives me pause. Usually, when people see me—size, tattoos, and piercings—they assume the worst. Maura feeling safe around me is a first, and I ignore the way my chest constricts at the compliment. "No problem. My clients come here by appointment."

Speaking of clients, a man in his early 20s, with a vertical labret on his bottom lip, saunters toward me. He pauses and stares in obvious awe at Maura.

I don't like it, so when I speak, my voice comes out more gruff than usual. "Sit here, please." He lowers himself to the leather chair, eyes never leaving Maura. "Stop ogling her, man. She's my guest. Either you behave, or you can ask someone else to ink you."

His face turns crimson red as he mumbles a low, "Sorry."

The next two hours are a masterclass in restraint and self-control. After asking for permission to sit close to me so she can watch how the needle inserts ink into the top layer of the skin, Maura positions herself far enough that I can move freely but close enough that our thighs touch.

I am a thirty-six-year-old man. I've tattooed women on their chests, above their asses, and even on their thighs. But not once did I get aroused. Maura, on the other hand, despite the layers of clothing between us, makes me burn. Good thing my professionalism wins out because I spend all my energy on making sure the tattoo is exactly how the client wants it.

And when he leaves, he's so happy he tips me more than the price I quoted him for.

Even so, I'm sweating bullets by the end despite the air conditioning. Without thinking, I yank my shirt over my head, toss it to the duffel bag near my chair, and take a fresh one from the drawers.

I turn to tell Maura we can get going, but she stands frozen by the doorway, Erika by her side. Maura's eyes darken as she trails them down to my exposed abs. Even all the way from here, I can see her breath hitch, her chest heaving like she's running a marathon.

Erika, the menace, casts her a sideway glance and smirks. Without another word, she goes back to her desk, leaving me and Maura staring at each other, with me at a disadvantage because I'm still shirtless.

My base instinct is to rush to her and claim her mouth, but I stop myself. I will wait for her to make the first move because the last thing I want is to scare her away.

But…

That look she gave me just now? She likes what she sees, and I've never been more grateful for going to the gym as often as I do.

"Maura?" My voice almost sounds like a growl.

Maura looks sharply at me, whatever spell between us disappearing into mist. "Yeah, sorry. Let's go? You hungry? We can eat."

Goddammit. I am hungry, and yes, I want to eat. But not food. The only thing on my mind is her pussy. Imagining my cock inside her, splitting her in two, has me so hard to the point of pain. "No. Not hungry. But it's late, and you look tired."

Her face cracks in a smile so breathtakingly beautiful I almost kneel in submission. "Nah, I enjoyed it. Honestly, you're amazing. I never realized just how much work it takes to mark the skin like that."

The admiration in her voice calms my cock down but makes my heart speed up. She's really doing things to me. Things I don't understand. "Thanks. Now, shall we? Erika's closing up shop."

Maura waves to Erika as we leave, and Erika sweeps her gaze to me, smirking and winking like we're sharing a secret. I have no doubt she's gonna flood my phone with messages later, and I'm pretty sure I know what she's gonna text me about.

If I thought brushing my knees against hers was hard, nothing compared to having her arms wrapped around my waist, her tits pressed against my back. The first ride earlier, she was still wary of me, so she kept her distance. I guess she realized I'm no bad guy because she doesn't mind getting physically close to me anymore.

With the engine rumbling loudly from underneath us, she pushes against me to show me her phone and the directions to her house.

Pope's Pine.

The most expensive address in the city.

I knew she was rich because the restaurant she was at didn't have prices on the menu and had dishes I couldn't pronounce. Besides, the guy she left had ‘trust fund kid' written all over him. She must be, too.

Well, fuck. If her beauty alone didn't put her out of my reach, then her social status did.

The universe likes to mock me.

With a resigned breath, I slide the visor down and gun it. I'm mindful of my speed, though, not just because my bike's a catnip for cops but because I've got a precious package behind me.

Too bad she's never gonna be mine.