Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss)

around my waist, hand on my hip in a slightly possessive but still sweet gesture. He made me feel all that warm, squishy shit deep in my stomach.
    I was still at a standstill with myself, but figured what was the harm in lapping up the affection for a while, having a little fun while it lasted. I wasn’t leading him on; he knew where I stood.
    Thick arms wrapped around my waist. Mace’s warm body pressed against my back as he kissed my neck and whispered against the shell of my ear, “Ready to go, babe?”
    “Mmm-hmm, sure. Can you take me to the shop first?” Earlier in the day, I’d had an idea, and seeing as the swelling had gone down in my hand, allowing me to move it freely, I figured now was as good a time as any.
    “What’re we doing here?” Mace asked as I turned on the lights in the back of the parlor and made my way to my station.
    “You said you wanted more ink. You’re getting an afterhours appointment”
    Surprised, he asked, “You’re gonna do it now? Are you sure? What about your hand?
    “My hand’s fine now, see.” I flexed my hand a few times to show him it was okay. “I’ve got the sketch you drew up ready to go; all I need is my canvas.” I pulled all my equipment out and checked everything was wrapped and set in the right places. I sat on my rolling stool in front of Mace which put me directly at crotch level, really not the best place for my concentration at that point. Clearing my throat, I spoke softly “You need to lose the—Oh…”
    Mace stood before me shirtless; his bare chest and washboard abs on display made my mouth water. My gaze followed his stomach down along the light trail of hair leading into the top of his pants, those perfect V shaped lower abdominal muscles were enough to make any woman want to lean forward and lick them. My panties became wet as my thoughts careened directly to the gutter. “Hop up on the table, and lie down on your left side for me, please.”
    I cleaned and prepped Mace’s arms. The whole while I felt his eyes on me, heating my skin from the inside out. Placing the stencil was a little distracting to say the least, the tips of my fingers running over his smooth skin, the feel of his accelerated heartbeat, the warmth of his body. His intoxicating smell so close to me had me breathing heavier than normal. Looking over to see he had been watching intently, sent goose bumps across my skin.
    “You’re so damn pretty, Scarlett,” he told me quietly. His eyes held the conviction his voice showed.
    Rather than betray my haywire feelings by replying, I instead asked, “This sitting where you want?” I nodded to his ribs; even I could hear the breathless way my words came out.
    The hand holding my tattoo gun came down gently to his skin, the vibrations added to the familiar feelings that always came with inking someone coursed through my body. Something about the buzz of my machine, the lines, the patterns, the curves in every piece of work I permanently made on skin, the power in my hands to make or break a tattoo in one single movement of my wrist, oddly left me with a sense of controlled calm. I would slip into a zone where I concentrated on nothing but the ink and my canvas. The moment a customer sat down before me, they became another of my masterpieces. Whether it was a small piece, a half of their arm or their entire back, it mattered no less to me. Skin and ink, ink on skin: it was my life, my love, my passion. Every little bit of my art deserved my undivided attention and the utmost care.
    Mace’s skin was a shocking contrast under my hands; rock hard muscles which I was positive he worked hard to maintain, covered with perfectly smooth soft skin, teamed with a scar or two; the only things marring his complexion. His body was stunning, a work of art on its own, with masculinity that could take your breath away. A body like his was worth waiting to work on, images that would come together perfectly flashed through my mind; there were so many things I’d like to do to his body and not all of them were done with ink.
    Mace had chosen a memorial tattoo to honor his late father; he explained a few things he wanted, leaving me to draw it up for him. It was gorgeous, complex and very fitting. Hector, Mace’s father, had grown roses most of his life; it was one of his many passions. A large black and grey scale cross that started under his arm and ran almost the entire length of his ribs was intricately wrapped in a rose bush featuring