Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

Though the words are commonplace for a tattoo parlor, the feminine voice grabs my attention—it’s dripping with sex. Low and husky, the voice wraps around me like a lush naked body might, taking me to dark, sweet places.

Pretending to examine another book, I glance at the owner of the voice.

She is bending over and staring at the guy’s ribs. Dark auburn curls spill across her profile. I can’t see her clearly, other than her lowered thick black lashes and the pout of her red lips.

“Very, very nice, Todd,” the voice purrs to the other guy, who I’m assuming is the artist—but fuck, I wish she were talking to me.

Hell. My hands grip the edge of the glass countertop. If she keeps that purring up, I’m going to get hard just listening to her.

The guy drops his shirt over his tattooed ribs. “You should design my next one.”

Nodding, she turns toward the counter and away from me. “Anytime, Paul, just set up an appointment with Mandy.”

The guy beams at her as I flip through the book of photos absently. I’m guessing the owner of that voice designed the ink in the pictures—and all I can think about is how to get an introduction to her. I haven’t been this fascinated by a girl since…Damn. I don’t remember when. And I haven’t even seen her face yet.

I’m staring at art that I’m not really seeing when a finger drumming on the counter pulls my attention from the binder. Expecting Mandy, my mouth falls open at the sound of that voice.

“Finding anything interesting? Anything giving your skin an itch?”

Her sensual tone shoots lust down my spine and right to my dick. I gradually flip a page, getting control of myself, then at last look up and take in the face that owns that voice.

Holy shit. She’s better looking than I could have imagined. Two tiny silver stars dangle from the barbells at the end of one eyebrow. A lip ring I instantly want to suck pierces the corner of her lower lip. Her gray eyes fringed in black stare back at me. Those eyes are as erotic as her voice. She’s all contrasts. Pretty, yet edgy with her piercings. Her pale skin and light eyes paired with rich auburn hair and dark, slashing winged brows make another contrast. She’s sexy as all hell. Get a grip, Justin. Do not drool, I think. I tap on the book. “These are really good,” I say.

She stares at me wide eyed for a moment before coolly saying, “Thanks. I take pride in my work.”

Standing up straight, I feign stupidity. “These are yours?”

Her black lashes lower as she glances at the book. “Every one.”

My eyes wander over her, taking in the loose sweatshirt with the store’s logo and the leaf tattoo that wraps around her wrist. She’s not like Mandy, who is in-your-face hot. Instead, she radiates a half-buried sensuality that has me wanting to peel back her cool demeanor and get a glimpse inside. I want to find out what’s beyond those slate-gray eyes watching me warily. They remind me of mournful lyrics, the way they hint at deeper emotions and pull at your soul.

“Well, judging from these photos you have to be the most talented tattoo artist I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a lot,” I say smugly.

Her smoky eyes narrow a bit before her gaze travels the length of my arm. “Looks like you’re ready for some real ink.”

As long as you keep looking and talking, you can do anything you want to me, baby. “Yeah, I’m ready for something a little more…in depth.”

“Any ideas rolling through your head?”

About tattoos? Not fucking one. Considering what a tattoo artist might suggest, I blurt, “Something more personal?”

She lets out a low chuckle and leans forward. “So you have no clue?”

I glance at her short silver nails while I rack my lust-ridden brain. “I’m thinking something relating to music?”

She cocks one eyebrow, and a silver star jingles. “You’re a musician?”

“Kind of,” I say, reluctant to admit I’m in a band. I instinctively know that bragging won’t get me anywhere with this girl. I look her over slowly, so there’s no confusion that I’m checking her out. I slide my hand across the counter and flick a finger toward her wrist, nearly brushing the skin. “That your only tattoo?”

She stands and folds her arms across her chest. “Oh, I have others.”

“Really?” I gaze at her intently.

She leans against the wall behind the glass case. My body wants to get closer to hers, and I fight the urge to jump the counter. “They’re not available for stranger perusal,” she says.

I run my eyes over her body and imagine where the ink might be. When I look again into her gray eyes, they have a sparkling defiance—but I hold out my hand anyway. “Nice to meet you,” I say. “Name’s Justin.”

Her lips twist into a smirk, but still leaning against the wall, she shakes my hand. Her palm is soft and warm, but I can feel the rough, callused skin along her index and middle fingers, right where a pencil would lie. She must sketch a lot. The contrast makes her even more interesting.

“Al,” she says in that smoky voice, then she releases my hand. “And the tattoos are still under wraps.”

“Al?” I say, forgetting about the tattoos for a moment. “That can’t be your real name.”

“Short for Allie.”

“Allie,” I say softly, lowering my chin, “is far prettier than Al. But I’m still interested in those tattoos…or maybe in the idea of what inspires you.”

She lowers her eyelashes. “Since you’re not inking me, let’s stick with what inspires you.”

Her tone has me changing tactics. Obviously, the traditional smolder that I pull out to make most girls melt isn’t going to work on this one. “Do you only design?” I ask.

She shakes her head slightly. “No. I ink too.”

“How…fascinating,” I say. And hot. Propping my elbows on the counter, I lean toward her. “We should go out for a drink and talk about what inspires both of us.”

She blinks at me with those eyes the color of gunmetal. “Ah, I don’t date potential inkees.”

Shit. Still trying to move too fast here. “I’m not a customer…yet, but a drink doesn’t mean a date. People do go out to converse—don’t they?”

“Maybe I don’t drink.”

“Coffee then?”

Her chin drops. “Caffeine is the world’s most addicting drug.”

I’m getting desperate here. “Milk shakes?”

A deep, sexy laugh escapes her. “If you’re really interested in me designing for you, Mandy”—she nods toward the back counter—“can set up an appointment. But I have to get back to work.”

Damn. She’s leaving me high and dry, and all I want is to hear more of that voice. “Oh, I’m interested.” Those eyes. That lip ring. I force a smile. I can’t keep my tone from conveying that I’m interested in more than her talent.

Her chin lifts slightly. “Okay then, I’ll see you soon, Justin.”

“Very soon, Allie.”

She gives me a slow nod, then walks away.

I watch her—a figure dressed in a shapeless sweatshirt and tight jeans—until she disappears into a hallway beyond the counter.

After taking in a deep breath and snatching a hooded sweatshirt from the shelf at the end of the glass case, I move toward the counter.

“What did you decide on?” Mandy asks, giving me hot eyes.

She hasn’t gotten any less sexy since I walked in the door, but—with Allie now in the mix—my lust-o-meter isn’t registering even a one for her. “This,” I say, dropping the hooded sweatshirt on the counter. “And I’d like to set up a design appointment with Allie for Monday, if possible.” I’m already haunted by her smoky voice and those stormy gray eyes.

Fuck. I’ve fallen in lust. Big time.

When I signed up for a communication class called Persuasion and Attitude Change, it sounded like it would be a breeze—and maybe somewhat interesting. But the class blows. And I have to deal with it every single Monday afternoon. How can it be called a communication class when the professor lectures at us for three hours?

I doodle possible tattoos in my notebook for my appointment with Allie as the professor drones on. I couldn’t concentrate on the art of communication even if I wanted to because I’m trying to come up with ideas to inspire her art. And I’m going to look like an idiot because all I can think of are musical notes or instruments. Or even worse, the traditional skull or dragon shit.

I’m not too deep. I don’t like deep. I sing. I party. I fuck. Occasionally, I study. In general, emotions pretty much suck. I try to stay away from them. I shouldn’t be surprised that creating a meaningful graphic illustration is beyond my skill set and emotional range.

The guy next to me takes pages of notes while I sketch a shitty snake wrapped around a musical note, like middle school kids draw all over their notebooks. As if I’d show this crap to a tattoo artist. Much less one who has been on my mind sexually for the past three days. I went home alone Saturday night, that’s how infatuated I am with Allie. Caught a ride with another dorm student. None of the girls who’d hit on me at Rats had that voice or those eyes or a lip ring. Until I have her, no girl will be able to compare.

Finally, the professor who never shuts up releases us.

With my notebook clutched against my hip, I race across campus. Several people, mostly girls, try to stop me to chat and others yell out hellos, but I just nod. I’m on a mission.

In our dorm room, Romeo sits at his desk in front of a laptop. He glances at me over his shoulder as I throw my notebook on my dresser, then turns back to his work. “You need to apologize to Gabe before practice tomorrow,” he says while typing.