With my decision made, I stride to the back and into the booth. She’s looking at me with that same smirk again, and there’s no doubt in my mind she knows what she’s doing to me.
I put my hands up. “Let me do this. Let me concentrate on the tattoo... and then we talk.”
She sits up straighter in the chair and puts her hand on the table next to her. “Okay.”
Like a man on a mission, I work with determination on her tattoo. I do my best to tune out the softness of her hand, the smell of her perfume, and the longing way I can feel her eyes boring into me. I do the red heart first, and she doesn’t even flinch.
“You okay?”
She nods. “I’m good.”
I grunt. Yeah, she’s good, there’s no question about that.
I do the black Q over top of the heart, with a black crown over it. It’s pretty and feminine.
And after cleaning it up, I grab my phone from my pocket to take a photo.
I lift her hand from the table and hold it in mine, angling her finger before I take a shot. I look at my phone, and I know I’ll be looking at this picture again later. I didn’t realize how it would effect me, with a picture of her hand in mine.
I give her the instructions and go over everything with her.
She’s nodding her head. “I got it. So now do we talk?”
4
Ginger
I know I sound impatient, but probably because I am. I would have nixed the whole tattoo thing if I thought he would just sit here and talk to me instead, but I have the feeling he would have shoved me out the door in a rather quick manner if I didn’t get any work done.
He claps his hands together and sits back down in his seat. He scoots his chair back as if being this close to me bothers him in some way. He tried to hide the fact that he was hard while he was working on me, but the big bulge in his jeans that I swear twitched every now and again was more than obvious. And I wasn’t able to quit looking at it.
“All right, let’s talk.”
I lean forward. “Let’s do it.”
His jaw tightens. “I’ll go first.”
I swing my legs to the side of the chair and nod in agreement.
He coughs. “Uh, okay, so I know you said you want me.”
I interrupt him. “I do want you.”
His brows crease in frustration. “Listen, I’m not available.”
I sit back surprised and look at his hand again. There’s no ring on his finger. “You have a girlfriend?”
“Uh, no—”
I interrupt him. Maybe he doesn’t wear a ring when he works. “A wife?”
“What? No.”
I stare at him a minute and then start to get up. “Oh, I get it. I’m not your type.” I mean it’s definitely not the first time. Most men flirt with me, I think it’s because I’m always so outgoing. But not every man likes a woman that is well, on the plumper side. Maybe my soft and rounded middle is not the thing for him.
I walk two steps before he stops me, grabbing my arm, and then when I turn around, he releases me quickly. “It’s not that. Definitely not that.”
Because I can’t resist, I take a step toward him and put my hands on his waist. “Well, what is it?”
My head is leaned backwards so I can look up at him, and he’s bent down to where our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. He looks shocked, and I know any minute he’s going to push me away, maybe not physically, but mentally, and I’m not going to let it happen.
My hands slide up his chest and wrap around each side of his neck. His pulse is racing under my fingertips. “So no wife... no girlfriend... and I am your type.”
His voice almost sounds strangled. “That’s right.”
I raise up on my tiptoes and grip his neck tighter. “So if I kiss you, you won’t be mad.”
He swallows hard, and I wait for his approval, but before he says anything, he dips his head and meshes his lips with mine. The kiss is everything I thought it would be. His hands are cupping my face almost painfully, but it just urges our kiss deeper. His tongue invades my mouth as his hands slide around my back, and I feel my feet come off the ground as he kisses me like he’s never going to let me go. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, almost gasping for breath.
He lets me down to the ground gently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
My fingers go to my lips. “I wanted it. I still do,” I tell him with all honesty.
He runs his fingers through his hair, and in one long run-on sentence, he rambles, “I’m an ex-con, I spent three years in prison for drug possession, I’m not dating, I’m getting my life on track, so I shouldn’t have done that.”