Surviving Ice
Page 27

“If you can sleep through a needle on your ribs, I’ll be impressed.”
“And what does impressing you get me?”
She exhales softly but doesn’t answer. I watch her reflection in the mirror as she turns and walks toward me, gloves on and spray bottle in hand. She slows to a pause, her pinched gaze on my back.
THIRTEEN
IVY
The scars are scattered across his back, from shoulder to kidney area. They make me flinch.
They make me think he isn’t just a soldier who survived boot camp and wore a uniform.
They make me think that he was hurt very badly.
They make me think that he’s seen a lot worse than I ever have.
I clear my throat, pushing those sad thoughts aside. “Okay, the end will reach down to where your belt sits. It’d be better if you pushed your jeans down a few inches.”
“Are you asking me to take off my pants, Ivy?”
There it is again. The words are flirtatious but his tone is entirely neutral. Almost sterile. But I can see his eyes in the mirror. They’re on me, sharp and perceptive and anticipating.
Waiting for my reaction.
“After seven hours under my needle, we’ll practically be married. You may as well unbuckle now,” I answer, gritting my teeth to keep from smiling like a fool who’s excited at the prospect of Sebastian flirting with me.
With one deft hand, he unfastens his belt and jeans. They slide a few inches to reveal the elastic band of Jockey boxer briefs. I doubt this guy owns even one overhyped name-brand item of clothing. He seems too practical.
A quick glance in the mirror shows me more of that line of dark hair running down from his navel and the prominent bulge below. It’s good to know that he didn’t lose any vital parts in whatever war he was a part of.
“Is that good?”
“It’ll do. Come here.”
I take his hand and settle it on my shoulder, so it’s out of the way when I mist his body with green soap. I expect him to flinch from the cool temperature like everyone does, but his face remains even. It’s like he doesn’t even notice. He simply watches me. Grabbing a paper towel, I quickly wipe off the excess, silently admiring the ridges carved into his stomach, which he’s clearly worked so hard on. I squeeze several globs of the gel needed for the transfer to adhere to his side and begin running my fingers over the full length of his side, gently smoothing and massaging it in, my breathing quickening with each dip and rise of his body, especially as I reach the sharp cut between his abdomen and hip. Wishing for the moment that I didn’t have to wear gloves. That I didn’t need the excuse of a tattoo machine to touch him like this.
I’ve turned into a hormonal fourteen-year-old. I hated being fourteen when I was fourteen. Now . . . it’s dangerous. I have no issues with acting on my desires. Like the desire to slide my hand into the front of his briefs right now.
Thank God no one can read minds around here.
“Okay, take a deep breath and let it go . . .” I watch his chest rise and fall. “Now relax and stand normally. And hold still.” The warning is unnecessary. Sebastian is a natural statue beside me as I position his design on his body and carefully peel away the paper, leaving my creation behind.
I smile. “So, what do you think?”
“Fierce. Stunning. Captivating.”
“You’re not even . . .” I sigh, feeling my cheeks flare under his scrutiny. He can’t see the design; he’s too busying staring at me, and he’s not even covert about it. I nod toward the full-length mirror on the wall opposite us. “Take a look for yourself.”
He turns away from me and strolls over to peer at his reflection again, making no effort to grip his jeans, letting them slide down more, until I can see the round humps of what I’m sure is a hard, perfect ass.
I have to clear my throat again to gain composure. “Move around a bit. You know, twist your body, lift your arm . . . make sure you like the way it looks from all angles.”
He does, leaning over and arching his arm, giving me a harsh view of those scars as they stretch under the halogen track lights. Abruptly, he turns and my eyes automatically drop to that V and the waistband and the bulge hiding beneath the thin navy-blue cotton before I can help myself.
“It’s good.” His voice pulls my gaze up to his face and the hidden smile.
He caught me. Thankfully he has the grace not to say anything.
He climbs onto the table and stretches out on his side. “Like this?”
“Almost. Can you slide over to the middle? I’m going to need room to sit up on the table.” Normally, I’d stand over or sit next to a client, but seven hours of leaning will wreck my back.
He adjusts without a word, giving me just enough room to perch one ass cheek and nudge myself up next to him.
I take a deep breath, peering at the half-naked man lying before me and the tattoo machine gripped in my hand. I’m a jumble of nerves right now. I’m afraid that the second I put this needle to Sebastian’s skin, I’m going to feel the same revulsion I felt last night working on Bobby. I’m certainly feeling an attraction to Sebastian that’s becoming hard to ignore, a desperate need for intimacy and diversion, even if it’s only temporary. But there’s something else amid the skittishness I feel, something steadier that’s pulling me to him. I think I just feel safer when he’s around.
This tattoo is a lot to take on, and clearly I’m not myself, the way I’m acting today, all needy. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this right now.
Sebastian suddenly rolls onto his back to stare up at me. “Are you sure you can handle seven hours of this?” he asks, as if reading my mind.
It’s like he knew those words would flip that switch inside me. It’s one thing for me to doubt myself internally. It’s entirely different for someone else to voice that same sentiment.
I press the pedal and a buzzing sound pushes the music into the background. He rolls back without another word. His raised arm isn’t out of the way so I push against it, reveling in the shape and size of his triceps for a brief moment.
And then I begin to mark Sebastian.
Everyone reacts to that first stroke of the needle differently. Some people flinch, some grit their teeth, some close their eyes. Sometimes it’s not what I can see but instead what I can feel, as tension tightens their muscles, and deep breaths swell their chests.
With Sebastian, there is nothing. And in a sensitive spot like this, to have absolutely no reaction is just not normal.
“How is that?” I ask anyway.
“Fine.” And it is fine, based on the even timbre of his voice. I guess the thick layer of muscle is more protection than even I expected.
I begin on the outline of the reaper’s head, the side of my palm ever so gently resting against him as I work, his body heat warming my skin even through the latex.
This is where my clients usually begin talking. They’re excited, they’re nervous, it’s a bit awkward to have a stranger touching their flesh and they want to get comfortable . . . there are plenty of reasons for them to strike up a conversation. It always starts with small talk—the basics about the person, the all-too-common “What’s the weirdest tattoo request you’ve ever had?”
Depending on how detailed the piece is and where I’m doing it, at some point the conversation usually veers into personal territory. Their dysfunctional relationships, failed marriages, their lifelong battle with weight, the loss of a child that has inspired their ink work, spirits of deceased family members sending them signs from beyond the grave.