“Don’t look at me like that.” He flicks on the lights and gestures to his tattoo chair.
“Another trick?”
“I’m righting a wrong.”
A lump forms in my throat. He goes to the counter and starts prepping a tray of supplies while I fidget.
“Take your shirt off,” he says without turning around.
A chill sweeps down my spine.
I’m not wearing a bra. Something Kade seemed to have forgotten when he gathered clothes for me… or maybe he just didn’t want to dig around my top drawer?
How kind of him.
The last time Saint saw me shirtless, he couldn’t take his gaze off my nipples.
So…
Fuck it. I lock the front door, then yank the privacy curtain. Saint glances over his shoulder just as I’m pulling off my shirt and sweatshirt in one go, and predictably, his gaze drops to my chest.
My nipples pebble in the cool air.
“Artemis,” he groans. “What are you doing?”
“You told me to take my shirt off,” I say as innocently as I can.
He tilts his head. “Do you trust me?”
“Is that a requirement?”
“No.” He takes a seat. “I was going to do your shoulder, but… I’ll do wherever you want.”
I consider that. My sweatshirt and shirt are in my arms, covering my stomach—and more importantly, my arms. God forbid Saint notice the bruised veins in the crooks of my elbows.
Nothing would kill this mood quite like that.
Where do I want a tattoo?
Wordlessly, I tap my collarbone.
He nods and points to a spot in front of him.
Damn. My knees shake on my way over. I’m feeling a bit vulnerable like this. Who wouldn’t? I hug my clothes tighter, tempted to cover my breasts, but they’ve got Saint enraptured.
When I come to a halt within arm’s reach, he inches forward even further. He presses on a spot on my collarbone, then sweeps his finger outward.
Goosebumps rise on my skin.
“Stay still.” He grabs a marker and returns. He flicks the cap off and braces his other hand on my shoulder. Right before he makes contact, though, he pauses. When he looks up, his face is only inches from mine. His eyes, this close, are too blue. Wide with earnest. “I’m not going to blindfold you, but I’d like you to not see until I’m done drawing.”
I swallow, then slowly nod.
He nods back. His head dips, his concentration focused on my skin.
His canvas.
The marker’s tip scratches against my skin. I sway, and he places my hand on his hip. Another stabilizing point. It keeps me upright, which is all he probably needs. The marker, after a few minutes, hurts like a tattoo.
