She did.
A week or two later, once she was certain her finances were in order, she sent the email - a brief and businesslike request for a booking, along with a couple of reference images. A response came back a day later - another late afternoon slot.
She drove into town, trying hard not to think about what had happened before. She wasn't going to mention it. She'd not told a soul, and guilt had plagued her - every time she had flashbacks to that day, every time she felt herself drifting off to daydream about it, every time she felt even slightly horny, she felt the pricking of her conscience. Well, less pricking, and more stabs at the heart. She knew damn well she ought to find another artist. But he was damn good, and they were both adults, right? They could move on. Put it all aside as a silly, adrenalin-fuelled moment of madness. She didn't want a repeat performance. Of course not. What sort of woman would want to repeat the hottest, most fulfilling sexual experience of her life? Christ. Who was she kidding...?
The shop was quiet, only one other artist working - a scary-cool looking lady with a lip piercing and more eyeliner than an Amy Winehouse tribute act.
They went through the usual pleasantries - how are ya, what are we doing today, check the stencil position in the mirror, clean the station, settle down on the couch. She didn't expect any more than that - he wasn't much of a talker while he worked, and this being her third visit she'd known he'd be pretty silent. She didn't attempt any more small talk, and the tension hung heavy in the air between them. She fiddled with her phone, tried to read, anything to avoid just sitting there and feeling his fingers on her skin.
She sat up and watched as he changed colours, saw him wipe a little ink onto the back of the black latex gloves he wore. She supressed a shiver. For some reason, those black latex gloves always made her feel a bit funny; kind of dark. She laughed to herself, wondering if she was developing a fetish. Perhaps it was a recognised one - people wore latex clothes, didn't they?
He glanced up from her leg and met her gaze.
"C'mon then, what's so funny? Don't you laugh under your breath at me..."
He was cocking an eyebrow at her, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She hadn't realised that she'd laughed out loud. She swallowed hard. She knew she was blushing furiously and she really, really hated it when that happened - her stupid body, giving her away again.
"Um... Nothing, really nothing," she sputtered. "You so do not need to know."
"Oh I do," he replied, quietly, studying her face.
Mercifully, this little interchange was interrupted by the other tattooist packing up and leaving. She waved a cheery "seeya Monday" as she left the shop.
He turned back from locking the door and visibly relaxed. "D'you want a drink?" he asked. "Not anything alcoholic, I mean. Coffee?"
She nodded. It'd be nice to get a bit of sugar and caffeine into her system. She'd started to feel a bit shaky after an hour of tattooing. Not to mention the studious ignoring - that took effort. Still, he didn't have far to go and after today, it'd be all done.
She watched him through a door into the back room as he flicked on the kettle and retrieved mugs, pushing a hand through his messy hair and sighing out loud, like he was tired - or relieved. Or perhaps both.
He handed her a steaming mug and she blew over the top, vapour rising in front of her eyes. She sipped gratefully and felt tension leaving her muscles. She'd worried too much about all this, hadn't she? He was just being kind. Professional and kind.
"Go on then, fess up," he teased. Again, that quirk of a half-smile, and something inside her clenched. She tried hard to look innocent, and clearly failed, because he was laughing at her over his own coffee mug.
"No chance. I'm not telling you that!" She laughed too, colouring slightly. Professional kindness might not last in the face of her telling him about the images in her mind, relating to his clever hands in shining black gloves. She was keeping her mouth shut.
He leaned back against a workbench. She tried not to look - and failed miserably - as he stretched, working out the kinks in muscles that had held the same position for a long time, rolling his shoulders, and reaching his arms up over his head. His well-worn t-shirt rode up slightly and she caught a glimpse of ink over one hip. Without thinking, she leaned in, pointing.
"Oh, now I like that a lot," she murmured. "What was the inspiration there?"
He held the hem of the t-shirt raised just enough for her to study the tattoo a little more closely. It was a detailed black-work depiction of a wrecked ship, a ghostly vessel left abandoned. A beautiful, yet strangely wicked-looking mermaid reclined on rocks nearby. The whole work stretched over his hip and round his side. She peered, getting a good look.
"A song, actually. Ever heard "Song to the Siren"? Tim Buckley sang it originally. I guess I just liked the song, it's kinda haunting, so..."
His explanation trailed off as she examined the skin. He sounded slightly embarrassed at her lack of reply, but really she was caught a little off guard - she could feel his body heat, and his scent filled her senses. Clean, but also a hint of musk. God. She was so damn close to him, and the strip of bare skin she could see was so enticing. She was close enough to reach out with the tip of her tongue and taste him...
"Um... Yes, god, sorry," She shook her head to clear it. "Yep, I know it well. I saw this clip of him singing on the Monkees show..."
"Ha, yes! That's the one that sold me on it. Just him and the guitar. It's stunning." He let the shirt fall and sipped his drink.
"Heart rending, isn't it! I can't believe you know it - well, I mean, not just know it, you had a tattoo of it, if you see what I mean."
"Yeah, well... It has meaning for me. Not all of my ink has meaning attached, but that one does. And I have lots of other stuff."
She wasn't going to ask the meaning. Not now, anyway. And yeah, she thought, thanks for the reminder - I know you have lots of others. I wasn't liable to forget that little fact. She tried to concentrate on not spilling her coffee.
"Okay, well, we should really try and get a bit more of that outline done, if you have the energy,"
She blew on the cup, trying to cool it. Did that work? Who really thought that blowing on hot drinks made them go colder, for god's sake? And as for the Siren thing... well, she'd never met anyone who even knew the song, let alone liked it. Every time she heard it, it made her heart ache. It was just the sort of song that went right for the heartstrings.
"Um, I said, outlining?"
She jumped a little. She'd been lost in thought, trying to think sensible thoughts and ignore the more nebulous ones that kept threatening to break into her consciousness. His skin. His smell. His taste. She looked up and met his inquiring gaze. He took the coffee cup from her hands, gently, and placed it out of reach. He'd perched on the work stool opposite her, ready to start working again, but he'd figured that her mind wasn't really on the tattooing any longer.
He rolled the stool further forwards, his legs wide, and leaned in to kiss her. The first touch of his lips on hers was like electricity - it stole her breath. His tongue drew a gentle line over her bottom lip, and encouraged her to open to him. Tentatively she responded and he kissed her harder, one hand on the back of her neck, a low growl in his throat making her skin run to goosebumps. He broke away, looking her in the eye, wordlessly seeking approval. She reached out for him, and tasted his mouth - coffee, warmth, that hint of cinnamon she'd done her utmost to forget. Her nipples turned to stone and she could feel herself starting to ache in the most sensitive places. She moaned into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip.
What the fuck was this gorgeous, clearly cool, probably popular man doing, she wondered. He was kissing her with the same amount of neediness that she was responding with. There was no way he'd spent the last couple of weeks daydreaming about their previous encounter, was there? Men like this probably got the lay of a lifetime twice a week, didn't they...?
He stood, and without a word dragged off his t shirt. She simply stared - yet again - at his lean, rangy physique, and the works of art etched into his skin. A map of his life, his experiences externalised.
And then she realised that his hands were at his belt buckle, and then his fly, and he was pushing his jeans down over his hips, over the sirens inked there, over the shipwreck. She thought for a split second that perhaps she understood why the sailors followed siren song, despite knowing their certain fate.
She leaned into him, breathing in his scent, holding his diamond-hard cock at the base. The need in her to please him, to bring him pleasure, took over. She ran her tongue over the hot, velvet-smooth skin of his shaft, from root to just below the flare of the head. Her tongue ran up and down his length, making him wet, and she adored the taste of him. She flicked gently, feathering licks on the sensitive underside, and a wordless moan fell from his lips. His hand went to the back of her head, twisting into her hair, encouraging her silently.
She met his eyes, her hand not leaving his dick, and in answer to her unspoken question he bit his lip.
"Ahhh, fuck. Do it," he urged. She teased him, stroking him slowly, smiling up at him. The power she wielded turned her on so much; he wanted it, and she knew it. His hips moved involuntarily.
She relented and took him into her mouth, slowly sliding him further in, and his hand clenched in her hair as he hissed through his teeth. He pushed on the back of her head, but she wouldn't give in that easily - not yet. This moment was hers to savour, and she kept going, agonisingly slowly. He filled her mouth and soon enough the tip of his beautiful cock nudged at her throat. She moaned, a low, primal sound, and the sensation made him gasp yet again.
