Chapter 13

Sophie

I draw the same line for the seventh time. "Ugh!" Then drop my pencil and stare up at the ceiling. The problem is, I have no practical experience with how the lines of this tattoo will look on a bicep—how it'll move or how it'll look as the muscle flexes and contracts.

"What's the problem, doll?" Ken steps into the back office, crunching on an apple, reminding me I should eat my lunch.

I flick my hand out at the sketch I'm working on. "This design. I want it to be perfect, but I don't know how it's going to work with the triceps and biceps as they move."

He nods, taking another bite and chewing as he thinks. "Linc!"

Lincoln pops his head around the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Soph needs your bicep. You got time?"

His eyes narrow as he looks at Ken. "What for?"

Ken looks at me with raised brows as he moves away and leans against the doorjamb but doesn't answer Lincoln, leaving it to me to explain. I tell him my issue, and he moves next to me to study my design concept. I point to the curve that I imagine coming up and wrapping around the inside of the arm. "I'm not sure how far to take this curl or how it will change with movement."

"You could draw it on Linc to give you an idea. He has great biceps." Ken winks and leaves the room.

Flicking my eyes up to Lincoln as my cheeks heat, I stumble over my words. "Uh … you … uh … don't have to do that."

Instead of answering, he sits and rolls closer to me, resting his elbow on the desk and bracketing my thighs with his. "Ken's right. The only way for you to learn it is to draw it." He tips his chin down to his bulging bicep. "Go on. I don't mind." Shifting my eyes between his face and his arm, I tentatively pick up my pen. "I have thirty minutes. Let's go, Soph."

"Thank you," I murmur and my hand shakes as I press my pen to his arm.

"Use your other hand to pull the skin tight. Like you do when you tattoo." His breath ghosts against the side of my face as he speaks.

I glance up at him and swallow my nerves. It's just ink. It'll come off. I tip my head and use my free hand to stretch his skin, then draw the lines on his arm.

His toned, muscular arm.

The one that was holding me up as I shamelessly rubbed my pussy over his dick.

I swallow thickly and try to push the memory away. But I can't. He was so strong, holding me like I weighed nothing. The vision of him keeping me in place as I tried to push down on his dick heats my body and I have to adjust my position to accommodate the ache in my lady parts.

Just focus on the task, Soph.

Pressing my pen against his golden flesh, I draw the first line. It's wobbly at best, so I trace over it to smooth it out, making it more defined. His soft cedar scent surrounds me and settles my nerves and I find myself lost in the design, drawing line after line, curved and straight, thick and thin. Now and then, his muscle twitches, and I glance up to check he's okay—a mistake on my part because I instantly grow self-conscious when I realize his bright blue eyes are locked on me. Clearing my throat, I tuck my messy waves behind my ear. "Thanks for doing this."

"Happy to help." He tips his chin down to my art and our faces are so close that it wouldn't take much for our lips to touch. "You started shaky, but you found your confidence and your lines became clean and strong." He flexes his muscle. "When you use the gun, start with confidence. Tentative strokes won't work."

"Yeah, I realize I need to keep the needle at the same depth."

"You do. It takes practice, but you're well on your way. I've seen a lot of improvement with your practice skins. I think you'll be ready to do some simple tattoos on people sooner rather than later."

My heart bounces around in my chest cavity. "You think so?"

His lips tip up in a devastating smile and those crinkles at the corners of his eyes make an appearance. "I do. Ken agrees. You said you were a fast learner and you've certainly backed up the statement. We're both impressed with your work ethic and eagerness to learn."

My body flushes hot. "Thank you. That … that means a lot to me."

He tips his chin down. "Finish the piece, Soph. I want to see what it looks like."

Dropping my eyes back to his bicep, I press my pen to his flesh and continue with the lines, filling in the design. I make a concerted effort to focus on the work and not on how close I am to Lincoln or how warm and hard his arm feels beneath my touch.

I try to ignore the way his legs bracket mine and how hard his muscular thighs feel when we touch.

I work to block out how his energy vibrates through his body like he's holding himself in check and how my blood buzzes through my veins in answer.

My attraction to him is growing more difficult to suppress, and who could blame me? The man is nothing like I first thought him to be. He's thoughtful and considerate, kind and patient. He's an awesome mentor and a humble artist. Beneath his morning grumpiness, there's a soft side that looks after everyone around him. And hiding beneath his dark T-shirts is a heart of gold. It bothers me how harshly I judged him when he first stormed past me. But worse than that, I hate that I know my father will judge him more harshly and never give him a chance to show his true self.

I finish the design and am happy with how it looks. However, when Lincoln shifts his arm, the lines become distorted, and the design doesn't look how I want. "Ugh, what did I do wrong?"

Lincoln looks down with a smirk. "You didn't position my arm properly. It works better when the client lies down with the arm stretched out, palm up." He lies his arm on the desk and stretches it out flat. "See the difference?"

I study the shape his arm makes this way as opposed to how it looked before. "Right. Gotcha. Why didn't you say anything?"

"The positioning of the body is important for two reasons. The first, as you can see,"—he traces his finger down the length of his bicep while my eyes greedily follow the action—"so the design flows properly with the skin and the muscles, but also so the client is comfortable and can hold the position for a long period. Especially when you're doing sizable pieces." He grins at me with a raised brow. "I didn't say anything because I wanted you to learn this lesson in a way you'd remember."

"Makes sense. Thanks for doing this." I wave at this arm.

"Your design,"—he taps my drawing—"will work perfectly once you consider the best way to position each body part."

"Linc, your client's here," Ken calls from the hallway.

Lincoln turns toward his voice. "Be out in a sec."

I wave at his arm. "Do you want me to clean that off?"

"Nah, I like having your work on me. I may even get you to tattoo something similar when you're ready."

The muscle in my chest makes a sudden departure, landing in my throat. "Really? You'd want my work on your body." His beautiful body.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Why do you sound surprised? You have to know by now I'm a fan of your work." I practically feel like I'm glowing from the inside out because of his praise. He squeezes my shoulder as he stands. "Come on, I'll show you what I mean with my next client while I do a cover-up of an ex-girlfriend's name on the back of his arm."