Temptation’s Edge (17 page)

“Married? Girlfriend?”

It
couldn’t
be.

“No, neither.”

“Ah. Well.”

She was smiling to herself, glad he couldn’t see how pleased she was. Maybe she was more of a girl than she’d thought.

“Anyway, I think we might really make this happen. There are still a ton of details to figure out.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Well, we have to choose the location. Both these places would work—we just have to sit down and weigh the pros and cons.”

“What are your options?”

“Are you sure you want to go over this stuff with me?” she asked. She was surprised by his conversational tone. By the phone call altogether.

“Sure. Why not? Sometimes it helps to hammer things out with an objective party.”

“It does. I was hoping to talk to Dylan…”

“You can talk to me instead, if you like. Although I’m not as pretty as she is.”

Mischa laughed. “I might beg to differ.”

“Ah, now you insult me. You don’t call an Irishman pretty, my girl.”

Those words.
My girl
. Why did they go through her like melted butter? That soft and sweet. And she loved this bantering with him. Without his sense of humor he’d be too dark. Lacking balance. Not that she didn’t appreciate his dark side…

“So, tell me about the buildings you looked at.”

She did, describing the neighborhoods, which he was more familiar with than she was.

“It sounds as if the Belltown shop would be best,” he told her. “There are a lot of tattoo shops here already, but that’s also where the clients will go looking to get tattooed.”

“That concept has worked for me in San Francisco. It makes sense.”

“We can always use more good artists here. I’ve been looking for someone myself. Plenty of artists. Not as easy to find one of really good quality.”

“I could tattoo you,” she said, almost biting her tongue as the words left her mouth.

“Could you, now? Do you have your equipment with you?”

“I’d planned to do some work on Dylan and Alec while I’m here. A sort of early wedding gift.”

“If Alec will let you tattoo him then you must be good.”

“Oh, I’m good. Very good,” she teased, her tone low, flirtatious.

He picked right up on the bait, his tone lowering to match hers. “Yes, you are.
Very
good. At several things. So, do you have time now?”

“Right now? To tattoo you?”

“Yeah. I could be there in ten minutes. Unless you’re tired from your day.”

“Not at all. I’m sort of wound up, actually.”

“Care to take out some of that energy on me?”

A shiver went through her at the thought of tattooing him. The buzz of the needle, the ink pushing into his skin…

“Yes. Absolutely. But give me twenty.”

“See you then.”

They hung up and she went to run a quick shower, her body heating up. She wasn’t sure why she was so in love with the notion of working on Connor. Maybe it was the idea of leaving her mark on him, shaking things up between them a little bit. Equalizing them.

Not that she didn’t see them as equals, in spite of the fact that he was definitely the one on top when they were in their roles as dominant and…submissive. God, she could barely even
think of the word in relation to herself. But she knew it was true.

When it came to Connor, she was totally submissive.

As submissive as she was capable of being. Still no slave girl. But it was so much more than she ever could have imagined.

How had he opened her up that much? She must really trust him to let him take her so far.

The idea hit her like a blow.

She’d always thought of her forays into BDSM as her being open to the idea of the extreme experience. A sensation junkie, she knew people in the BDSM arena called it. But she
was
submissive with Connor, even before she was deep down in subspace. Something she’d never achieved with any of the other men she’d done this sort of power play with. Because she’d never met anyone she trusted enough. She’d never given them a chance to show her that she could. But with Connor, things had happened naturally.

She gazed at her reflection in the big mirror through the steam gathering in the room. She didn’t look any different. A little more flushed at the moment. A little more dilation to her pupils. Shock? Or just a surge of pure anticipation? Maybe a bit of both.

The trust was beginning to happen on a deeper level, whether she wanted to think about it or not.

Tonight, she’d see if that trust went both ways. Tonight, she would be the one in control. She could hardly wait.

Mischa was just adding a touch of her signature red lipstick when the buzzer rang, and she went to let Connor into the building. Her pulse was racing while she waited for him to make it upstairs. Her temperature went molten hot when she opened the door.

She always forgot how big he was, really hulking. The way his dark sweater stretched across his massive shoulders.

Stop gawking and say hello.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

He stepped through the door, took her in his arms and kissed the lipstick off her, leaving her breathless.

“Better stop this if I’m to get a tattoo tonight,” he said, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand. He was grinning, but his eyes were dark with desire.

She knew just how he felt. She smiled, took a step back to steady herself.

“I’m getting things set up in the kitchen,” she said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, I’m good, thanks. So are you. I like this look on you. I’ve never seen you in casual dress before. Other than when you’re naked.”

She glanced down at her gray yoga pants and her long-sleeved black Ramones T-shirt. “I’ll probably work better like this.”

“Better than you would in a dress? Or better than you would naked?”

She laughed as she turned to lead him to Dylan’s kitchen, everything sleek and modern: white tile halfway up the walls, gray granite counters, polished maple cabinetry and brushed-steel appliances. “Both. I’ve set up at the bar counter. But we need to talk about what you want.”

“I brought some images with me,” he said, handing her a sheaf of papers she hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying. “I did them myself, so you may want to make them more conducive to the lines you’ll need for a tattoo. I don’t know if my work will translate directly.”

She looked through the pencil sketches of a Celtic dragon, drawn from several different angles. She loved the design immediately.

“This will translate nicely. Just give me a few minutes to draw something up.”

“Sure.”

“Where are we putting this?”

“I want it to cover the entire upper portion of my back, from the waist up, maybe.”

“I don’t think we can do that large a piece in one session.”

“That’s all right. You’re in town for another couple of weeks, right?”

“Yes, but you need time to heal in between sessions. Maybe
if I do it in sections, rather than the entire outline, then adding color later…Okay, we’ll find a way to make it work. Make yourself at home for a little bit.”

He nodded, wandered around the open apartment while she began to draw on the transfer paper, following his sketch.

He wouldn’t have asked her to start such a large tattoo if he didn’t intend to keep seeing her, would he?

Stop questioning everything, being such a girl.

“Dylan has a fine collection of photography,” he said from the living area.

“She does. She has amazing taste. I’ve always thought of her as a frustrated artist, she has such a great eye. Speaking of artists, I’d really love to get a closer look at your work some time.”

“Well, I’m not an artist the way you are…”

“Are you kidding? I’ve seen a little of your stuff. It’s all over your apartment.”

“It’s just commissioned work.” He came back into the kitchen, and she felt the heat of his presence as he stood looking over her shoulder. She made an effort not to breathe in his scent. “This is beautiful. Much better than my sample sketches.”

“Your stuff’s not all commissioned work, Connor. What about the erotic pieces?”

“I’ve just started doing them. I’m not sure they’ll turn out to be anything that’ll be taken seriously.”

“Why not?” She looked up at him. “They’re beautiful, from what I’ve seen.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Spare, lovely lines. You have a good eye for the human form.”

“Good enough for you to pose for me?”

“Yes.”

She’d said it without thinking about it, of what it meant. That
he’d have an image of her after she’d returned to San Francisco, to her life. That he wanted to.

Don’t make too much of it.

“Maybe this weekend?” he asked.

“Maybe. I have to be available for Dylan. I’m not sure what the weekend plan is yet.”

“Of course.”

“Here, I think I’m done. Let me know how you feel about it. I can change something, if you want.”

“It’s perfect.”

It
was
perfect, exactly what he’d had in mind. Connor looked at the quick sketch she’d done, marveling at her skill. The dragon was reminiscent of the Celtic tribal work, but with something entirely unique in the graceful lines. The scales were worked into complicated knots. The wings were a pair of long thorned branches, the head regal, fierce, the twisting body powerful.

“I was thinking of doing it in black with a few touches of red, like your warrior armband,” she suggested. He was leaning over her shoulder to look at the drawing, and he couldn’t help but take one long, lingering breath, drawing in her warm, spicy scent.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he agreed.

“Great. Let’s get started.”

She gestured for him to sit on a stool at the high granite counter, which he did after pulling his sweater over his head. He saw that she had a workstation set up, with a piece of plastic wrap stretched tightly over the granite, the thimble-sized plastic cups full of black ink stuck to the wrap with what he assumed was antibiotic ointment, as he’d seen when he’d been tattooed before. Her machine was laid out next to the inkpots and her red boxy power supply unit stood to one side of them. She turned on her
iPod, which was sitting in its dock on the counter, and some old punk tune spilled out.

“Is the music okay with you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I love punk. Especially this old-school stuff.”

“It’s some of my favorite music, although I like a little of everything.”

“Me, too. I like the old Irish folk ballads, even. And my mum got me listening to opera when I was a child.”

“Opera? Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she told him. “I go to the opera at least a few times a year.”

“Ah, that doesn’t surprise me.”

She pulled up a stool behind him. “Okay, ready?” she asked him.

“Ready.”

She wiped his skin with an antibacterial wipe, shaved off the tiny hairs with a disposable razor, then wiped his skin again before pressing the transfer paper to his back, then pulling it off slowly, all of which he felt with that nice buzzing awareness that it was
her
hands doing these things.

“Do you want to go into the bathroom to check the placement?”

“No. I trust you.”

He did. To tattoo him, and in general. Strange. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten to know a woman long enough to trust her, other than a small handful of female friends. Not a woman he was sleeping with.

He compartmentalized his relationships with women, he realized. Friends in one spot, lovers in another. But the lines were blurring with Mischa.

“I know you’ve done this before,” she said, “but the back can
hurt more than other areas sometimes. The bones are so close to the skin.”

“Do I hear a certain degree of glee in your voice?” he teased her.

She laughed. “Maybe you do. Here we go.”

The needle buzzed to life, and he felt the first tickling hum of it on his skin.

“Are you doing all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

They sank into a rhythm, then, neither one talking much. Just listening to the music, the gentle sound of the tattoo needle. He felt himself focusing inward, on the sensation of the needle on his skin, her gloved hand as she wiped the excess ink away. The scent of her perfume was everywhere, and he inhaled, taking it in, making it a part of the experience. The sensation went from the first mild tickle to a low, steady burn, but he didn’t mind it.

“How are you doing?” she asked again after a while, checking in with him in much the same way he did when he was playing her.

“I’m feeling it.”

“And?”

“It’s bearable. But I wouldn’t mind if it was worse. For me, the pain is a part of being tattooed, a part of the experience. I like to challenge myself a bit, if that makes sense. It’s a sort of trial by fire. Like I’ve earned my ink.”

“I feel the same way. About being tattooed. And about the pain play. I didn’t realize it until just recently. But there’s that part of me that’s getting off on seeing what I can take. And I don’t mean I’m one of those people who will hold out on using a safe word when it’s needed. But there is a certain pride in it—in taking the pain.”