I told myself I wasn’t going back.
But the unfinished tattoo burned on my ribs like an invitation. Every time I touched the sore skin, I thought about his hands, his c**k, the way he made me scream.
By the next afternoon, I was standing at his door again.
The shop was quiet this time closed to the public. The sign on the door said appointment only.
Jace was waiting. Leaning against his chair, arms folded, tattoos flexing over hard muscle. His dark eyes locked on me the second I walked in.
“You came back,” he said, like he already knew I would.
“I—I need the tattoo finished.” My voice wavered.
He smirked. “That’s what you think you’re here for?”
Before I could reply, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside, slamming the door shut. His mouth crashed against mine, tongue forcing in,
