The shop smelled like ink, leather, and something sinful. The buzzing of the tattoo gun in the back room sent shivers down my spine before I even saw him. I’d been wanting this tattoo for months, and when my friend told me about Jace, the guy who “made women moan louder in his chair than in their beds,” I thought she was exaggerating.
But the moment I stepped inside, I knew she wasn’t.
He leaned against the counter like he owned not just the shop, but the entire damn street. Black shirt hugging his chest, tattoos crawling up his forearms and disappearing under the fabric. His eyes lifted to mine—dark, sharp, pulling me in like I was already his canvas.
“You’re my three o’clock?” His voice was deep, lazy, but heavy enough to pin me in place.
“Yes.” I swallowed, suddenly nervous.
“Good,
