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“You’re not allowed to call him that,” I say. “It makes him too horny.”

Callan gives Tate a look, and Tate just flips him off and goes back to the kitchen, laughing. Breakfast is on the table soon enough, and we all sit around, stuffing ourselves with cinnamon apple waffles, eggs, and bacon.

It’s delicious, and the thought of getting to eat like this all the time is still a very good one.

Once the dishes have been cleared away, Ares puts on some Christmas carols in the background and Tate breaks out the eggnog. Callan declines a glass, wanting to have steady hands for the tattoo, and I watch as he gets his equipment set up.

He sanitizes everything and snaps gloves on before gesturing for me to sit down in one of the kitchen chairs.

“I was thinking of here,” he says, touching my upper arm, right near my shoulder.

“I like that.”

Callan nods and pulls out a marker, settling in to start drawing the design on my arm for him to trace with the tattoo gun. It’s easy to relax as he does, the feeling of the marker on my arm familiar by now.

When he’s done, he calls the other two over to look, and they all give it their approval.

With the sketch settled, Callan pours inks into little cups and then gives me a serious look. “Take a deep breath for me.”

I do, holding it.

“Good girl. Now let it out slowly.”

I exhale slow, feeling a calm settle over me.

When Callan fires up the tattoo gun, I jump a little, surprised at the loud noise, but I do the breathing technique again, and it helps me to settle.

“Good,” Callan says. “This won’t take too long, but let me know if you need a break or anything. If you need to stretch or need some water or something. We can stop whenever you want.”

Then he sets the needle to my skin and gets to work.

It’s a weird feeling. It definitely hurts, but it doesn’t really feel like getting stabbed. I guess because the needle is moving so fast, I can’t feel each individual prick from it. It feels more like a hot line is being drawn over my skin, carving into my flesh.

Honestly, I expected it to hurt more.

“You’re doing so well,” Callan says after a while. He’s stopped the machine to wipe away ink and check the design. “Better than some people I’ve had in my chair.”

“She’s a trooper,” Tate says with a crooked grin. “She takes things so well for us.”

I definitely go pink at that, and Tate winks. He knows exactly what he’s doing, saying things like that.

My praise kink is on full display, clearly, but I don’t feel embarrassed about it. I don’t feel like I need to hide it. Callan goes back to work, and I inhale, hold, and exhale slowly, sinking into the feeling.

“Very good,” Callan praises. “You’re so good for us, wildflower.”

“It’s going to look amazing on you,” Ares says. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

Them praising me and talking me through it makes it easier to bear, and I only call for one break in the middle, so Tate can come over with a cup of ice water and a straw for me to sip from.

Callan stretches and drinks his own water and then goes back to it, his brow knit in concentration. I can’t stare at him the way I want to, not without twisting too much and possibly ruining the tattoo, but there’s definitely something attractive about the single-minded focus Callan has while he’s doing this.

He’s so competent, checking his lines, moving the tattoo gun with practiced ease. It looks good on him, and my stomach flutters every time I remind myself that he’s mine now.

After an hour or so, I start to get a little squirmy. My body has registered that we’ve been in pain for a long time, and it wants to be done now, please and thank you.

Luckily, Callan shuts the machine off again and wets a napkin with something from a little bottle. He wipes the tattoo off, and the cold liquid feels like heaven on my burning skin.

I sigh with relief, and he chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, that’s everyone’s response to the wet paper towel at the end.”