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“Can you see enough from there?”

She nods, and I uncover her mouth. Anna grinds on me and my eyes nearly roll back.

Gripping her waist, I push her down on me. “Hold. Still,” I demand.

Her muscles are tense, right down to her pussy that twitches around me.

“Are you comfortable in this position?” I ask aloud, which happens to be a phrase that works for both sex and getting a tattoo. How convenient.

“Uh-huh,” she says, her head bobbing.

“Good. Now relax for me.”

She blinks slowly, body softening like she’s savoring every inch stuffed inside her. This is a great distraction for me as well. I may have gotten out my anger with Steve the other night, but knowing how she got these scars will never leave me unaffected.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” she whispers.

I reply under my breath, “Don’t pretend like that’s not your favorite quality.”

My chest presses to her back as I reach past her and tilt the chair’s backrest forward, it shifts her with it, maneuvering her into a lean that gives me a better angle to work while she sits on my dick. The movement of me inside has my cock jerking—everything in me wants to thrust.

I straighten my spine and adjust the work lamp, then grab a fresh pair of gloves. It takes a few minutes to prep her skin; Anna’s back rises and falls slowly beneath my hand in anticipation.

She sucks in a sharp inhale when the machine comes to life.

The first touch of the needle to skin is like the first brushstroke on a canvas. Even though the piece is familiar, I enjoy the sensation of settling into my work—and doing it while she’s stretched around me is more than a novelty. It’s not something I would ever consider doing with anyone else, but this is a deeper connection than one I’ve ever come close to experiencing. I’m committed to her.

Memories of last weekend flood in, and I study her scars not like a tattoo artist, but as a man who loves the woman they’re etched into. I isolate the area of skin with my thumb and forefinger, keeping it taut as I build up the color and detail.

Everything I need is right here under my hands. I find beauty in the way her muscles tense and then loosen as she adjusts to the bite of the needle.

Her skin takes ink as well as she takes me, and both are permanent.

I steal a glimpse at her reflection, she’s staring back like she’s sizing up a meal. Fucking hell, this woman.

Across the aisle, Kelly laughs loudly at whatever her client says and the bubble of privacy around us bursts, a cruel reminder we’re not alone. Logan is tattooing on the other side of the partial wall that divides our stations, the lack of conversation could be due to him working on a deaf client or the fact that he’s not one to talk much while he works. In contrast, Thor is deep in a woodworking discussion with his appointment and Kelly continues giggling away with the woman she’s tattooing.

Anna stiffens and I think she’s had the same realization as me—that she’s being fucked while four people are a mere ten feet away, give or take.

The only floor-to-ceiling walls in the studio are in the back of the shop. Our stations are divided by partial walls that are roughly five feet tall. The privacy screen is six feet tall. Kelly, the artist across the aisle, is five foot two—so there’s no chance she’s going to see what’s happening. However, Thor and Logan are closer to my height, and it would be no feat for them to peek over the wall and witness Anna’s innocent pink sundress pooled around her middle while she sits on my cock.

I don’t need to drive into her, just the thought of getting caught is going to keep me bricked—based on her body’s reaction, I’m guessing the riskiness gets her off too.

The machine hums between us, filling the silence, but everything else feels louder—the hitch of her breath, the way she claws to grip my thighs, the heavy lidded sex eyes she gives me in the reflection. She ever so gently rolls her hips, it’s subtle, almost as if she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I, however, fucking notice. “Hold still.”

“Sorry.”

She’s not sorry.

Her apology makes the corner of my mouth tilt into a half grin. “Talk to me—how does it feel?”

“It hurts, in the best way.”

I peek up to see her lips parted in the mirror’s reflection . . . She’s a smokeshow. I blink a few times, focusing on my work. My next pass is slower—more deliberate and controlled. I wipe the excess ink beading on the surface of her skin. Anna’s breath catches.

“Breathe through it.”

She exhales slowly, releasing the tension in her shoulders.