Chapter Three.
1822 Words
Chapter Three.
I sit nervously tapping my foot, longing to nibble on my fingernails. A habit I had long since gotten rid of, thanks to Stop and Grow, which my mother had purchased, because ‘young ladies do not bite their fingernails’.
The only reason I am not munching down on my perfectly manicured, French-polished nails, is because I know I did not wash my hands properly back in the club. I tug at my dress as it creeps slightly above my knee, waiting for the artist to finish his work on his other client.
Maybe I am making a mistake. I have heard the process was painful. However, if I do not do something rebellious now, I doubt I ever will. I need this, just for one night, to have a permanent reminder that I had a choice, and this was my life to lead.
The next question that filters through my brain was what to have done. I wasn’t sure, maybe a butterfly breaking free from its cocoon. I could envisage it in my mind's eye, bright reds, oranges, yellows, lined in black. It would be fitting, for the situation. The next question was where. Where on my body would nobody see, other than me? I was pondering on my options, when the red screen which folded back, and a huge man with grey long hair and long grey top beard wearing black leather pants, and vest, with a patch saying ‘Heavens’ Angels’ and a pair of white wings was sewn on the right-hand side. Strange, Heaven’s Angels, I thought it was Hell’s Angels.
“Cheers for this, Harrison,” the scary looking man said.
“Any time Sean,” the deep sexy voice I had heard earlier replied. Suddenly the biker guy looked at me, a smirk on his lips.
“Looks like someone got lost,” he quipped, indicating toward me with his head, and chuckling.
I immediately stand up, straightening my shoulders and open my mouth to tell him that I was not, indeed, lost at all, when the words stick in my throat.
The artist, if that is what you call them, appears from behind the folded screen. His pitch-black hair is short at the sides and the back, the longer lengths on the top perfectly styled. His black sleeveless t-shirt showcased his muscular arms, which were covered in so many tattoos it was hard to see where one ended and another begun, yet they were a thing of beauty. The sight did something to my body, which felt wrong, yet so right. His face looked as if it had been carved from marble. His jaw was strong, peppered with black scruff, his nose slim, and the eyes which currently bore into me, were the lightest grey I have ever seen.
My eyes have grown a mind of their own, as they trail down his body, his thighs are thick, in a pair of black jeans, with rips on the knees. His feet look huge, in a pair of steal capped boots, and my drunken mind cannot help but wonder if the saying is true…big feet, big….
“What are you doing here, princess?” his voice asks, pulling me out of the images that would make my mother hyperventilate, when I imagine what is locked inside those tight denims. This is NOT very lady like of me, and I really do NOT care. However, he is looking at me with a smirk on his lips, as if he knows what I am thinking.
Oh my, floor swallow me whole. Please.
I feel my cheeks heat, as I swallow deeply, snapping my eyes up to his gorgeous face.
“I want a tattoo,” I state, finding my courage from God alone knows where.
“No can do, princess,” he states.
“Oh, are you closed?” I ask, the disappointment in my voice clear for all to hear, as the older biker guy chuckles, then mumbles something about leaving him to it, and walks out the door.
“Nope, but I am to you,” his voice is strong and commanding, and not to sound like some kind of wanton woman, makes my knees weak. Or is that the effects of the Vodka and cokes I had in the club? Who knows?
My brow furrows.
“Why? I have money,” I say, grabbing my purse and opening it up, stumbling slightly in my haste to show him. He reaches over, placing his hand on my arm, sending a shot of something akin to an electrical pulse through my body, making me stop what I am doing and looking up at him, with parted lips. A tiny squeak erupts from my lips. Oh my, how humiliating!
“I am not inking you, princess,” he states.
Nope, I do not like that answer. I want a tattoo!
“Why not?” I ask, attempting to sound confident, maybe even a little pushy. However, it comes out barely above a whisper, and sounds more like I feel, uncertain, unsure, timid.
“Because you are a virgin, and drunk,” he simply states.
I blink my eyes, aghast.
“What has my lack of s****l experience got to do with this?” I ask, annoyed that he would even bring up my lack of relationships in my life. Plus, how the hell does he know? Something akin got a groan rumbles from his chest, making my tongue jut out of my mouth, and moisten my lips, at the sound of it.
“I was talking about being an ink virgin,” he states, a lazy grin forming on his lips before he leans forwards and whispers in my ear.
“But good to know,”
I feel my blush taking over, from the bottom of my neck to the tip of my ears. I am speechless, I mean what do you say to that?
He pulls back slightly, his grey eyes locking with my amber ones.
“I like my ink virgins, like my women. Sober. When they lie on my couch, I want them to fully know what I am going to do to them, prepared for the pain and pleasure I will provide,” his low voice turns almost husky, or maybe he has a frog in his throat, I am not sure, but what I do know is it makes my heart leap in my chest.
“You need to know exactly what you are getting yourself into. Because once I start, I don’t stop, until the job is finished. However, satisfaction is always guaranteed,” he states, his ice grey eyes still locked with mine.
Oh my! I don’t know if he is talking about a tattoo, or something else entirely.
His naughty words send a rush of something I cannot describe through my body, and I wonder if the handkerchief from earlier, had done its job correctly, as now my panties are feeling distinctly moist.
What is wrong with me? I know I am rebelling slightly but suddenly wanting to experience the pleasure and pain he described, was not what I had in mind. No, the thoughts that are running through my mind, are not lady like, at all!
“So, if I come back tomorrow, sober, you will do my tattoo then?” I ask, blinking rapidly.
“Princess, something tells me you will not come back. A good girl like you don’t want ink on your skin,” he states, straightening up.
“Maybe I don’t want to be the good girl anymore,” I say, wondering how this man has seen right through me.
Another low groan escapes his lips, as he takes a step away from me, before muttering something under his breath, which I think is, ‘you are killing me princess,’ but don’t quote me on that, because I have had a few drinks, and maybe it is my imagination.
The bell on the door rings, as Kit walks inside.
“For f**k sake Mellisa, here you are!” he shouts at me, clearly a little exasperated at me going missing.
Oops.
“Why the hell did you disappear?” my cousin asks again, clearly worried about me.
“I needed some air. I came to tell you, but both you and Amy, were, erm, well, busy,” I defend myself. But old habits die hard, and guilt begins to cloud my mind.
“Sorry” I apologise, slightly shrinking into myself. I hate upsetting people, and well, normally when people are pissed off, it ends with me being berated and called all the idiots under the sun.
“s**t, yeah, Amy and I were playing snog a trog,” he says. I have no clue what that means.
“It is when you pick the ugliest person you can and snog them,” Kit tells me, as if he had read my mind.
“That is horrible!” I exclaim, not at all approving of the game.
“This one with you Kit?” The tattoo artist addresses my cousin, indicating with his head toward me.
“Yeah, my cousin. You didn’t ink her did you Harrison? Her mother will kill me,” my cousin sighs, running his hand through his hair.
“Nope. Don’t ink first timers, when they are drunk,” the gorgeous man states.
Obviously these two know each other, not sure how. Although my cousin does have an arm full of tattoo’s, maybe it is the work of this adonis who is staring intently at me.
“I am not drunk!” I protest, then procced to sway a bit, as I lift my head to quickly, earning me an eyebrow raise from both the ink god himself, and my cousin.
“No, you are not drunk at all,” Kit sarcastically smirks at me.
“But, it is three thirty in the morning, and your mother is blowing up my phone. So, come on, we are heading to the taxi rank,” Kit tells me, before shaking Harrison’s hand, and thanking him for not giving me a tattoo.
“I will see you tomorrow,” I slightly slur at the gorgeous man, who shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe me. Then the rooms ways, as I stagger out, my cousin grabs my arm in a bid to keep me upright.
“Where did you find her?” Amy’s voice rings out, as we head back toward the club.
“She was in with Harrison,” Kit says. A look I cannot quite discern passes between them, before Amy turns to me.
“Oh Mellisa. H is great, but he is not your type of person. Trust me,” she states. I furrow my brow but keep my council, as Kit hails a taxi, and bundles me inside, my night of freedom coming to an abrupt end.
- Writer
