The Twilight series belongs to Stephenie Meyer. Use of her characters in this fanfiction story is for entertainment purposes only, without monetary gain. No copyright infringement is intended. All original content belongs to maniacalmuse. Please do not alter, copy, repost, or distribute without permission.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, locales, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner, or exist in the original Twilight universe, which is also a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Hi there! I'm stopping by today with a kinky little number I came up with years ago, but only finally made its way out of my head last week. I hope you enjoy it! Many thanks to my pre-readers: creaatingmadness, Mel Cee, and PearlyFox for their incredible feedback and encouragement! XO
– (K)Inked –
"Thank you for calling (K)Inked, Ali speaking . . . Oh, hello, Marcus . . . I'm sorry, Mistress Rose is fully booked that day . . . Uh huh . . . I'm afraid so . . . No, but I can get you in on the tenth at three thirty if that works for you?"
I smirk at our receptionist's side of the conversation, imagining Rosalie's most frequent client whining and wheedling for a spot on the other end of the line. The man already sees her three times a week—her maximum for anyone—but he's notorious for trying to sneak in for an extra session or two, or three or even four. At the rates she charges, I can only imagine what goes on behind her closed door to make him so desperate to see her this often. Although, the more I think about it, the less I actually want to know.
Shaking my head before my mind wanders too far down a dark and unforgiving path, I refocus on the design I'm drawing up for one of tomorrow's clients, a butterfly with wings made up of multiple tiny flowers. Off the phone, Ali rolls her chair across the floor, spinning it in circles like a carnival ride until she comes to an abrupt stop beside me at the far end of the front counter.
"Who's that for?" she asks, her sleek, raven-haired bob just barely reaching my chin as she stretches her neck upward to get a better glimpse of what I'm doing.
"Jess Stanley," I reply, recalling the name from the notes I took when the client called to discuss her ideas with me.
"Is it her first?" Ali fishes, and I can already tell where her line of questioning will lead.
"And it's going where?"
A resigned grin curls my mouth upward. "One guess . . ."
Ali groans, slumping down against the back of her chair and turning to and fro with her feet. "Another fucking tramp stamp," she says bitterly. "Bitches need to get more creative already."
I laugh, pausing my drawing and pointing my pencil at her accusingly. "Speaking of bitches—judgmental much? Not everyone can be so carefree about their bodies." Alice is decorated from neck to tiny toe, a whole comic book's worth of colorful designs etched onto every inch of her skin. It's a stunning kaleidoscope of artwork that suits her fiery, no-fucks-given personality to a T, but different strokes for different folks, as they say, and the same goes for those entrusting me and my machine.
Ali's hot-pink titanium septum ring rises as she wrinkles her small nose at me. "Yeah, yeah. Still, you know what I'm saying."
A shrug is all I'll give her, so she huffs and rolls herself back over to her side of the desk, shooting me a double bird before turning just as she reaches her computer.
I snicker to myself and get back to the task at hand, adding a few more leaves into the empty spaces between the butterfly's flowery wings.
"Oh, by the way," Ali shoots back over her shoulder, drawing my attention as she turns to look at me once more. "Your seven o'clock called and canceled about an hour ago. Something to do with a bad hangover and a kitten." Her heavily-lined eyes roll out to the side while she considers exactly what that excuse might mean, shaking her head when nothing appears to come to her.
"What?!" I glare at Ali and frown, annoyed that my last client of the day has ditched. "And you're just telling me now?!"
"I got distracted!" she exclaims, motioning toward the Lucifer fanfiction occupying her computer screen. When I look closer I can see at least ten open tabs in her browser, all with different story titles.
"Mary Alice Motherfucking Brandon!" I exclaim, pulling out my cousin's full, somewhat-adulterated name in mostly mock anger.
She grins at me sheepishly and spins around in her chair once more. "I know, I know, not on company time, but it was slow! No other calls were coming in, and last night I fell asleep while I was reading this one were Luci actually has three cocks—"
"Enough!" I shout, laughing and covering my ears. "That's your sick addiction, girl, not mine." Unwelcome visions of a triple-endowed devil are now demanding attention in my brain, no matter how hard I try to push them away. "Ugh, now it's all I can see! How could you ruin such a good show for me like that?"
Alice cackles and doesn't apologize, instead just turning back to the computer screen, folding her arms on the desk as she leans forward eagerly to read. "I'll send you the link for the story later on, so you can at least see what he does with them all . . ."
I sigh and resign myself to probably having to do just that, now that the seed has been planted so deep in my imagination. Maybe all I need is to read it to get it out of my system, like listening to a song that's been stuck in your head all day.
Rosalie's door sweeps open at this exact moment, distracting me enough to save me from any further disturbed imaginings. "That's right, Jake, you were a very good doggie. Mama has a treat for you now, yes I do!" She reaches into the pocket of her tied, floor-length black silk robe, taking out what appears to be a Goldfish cracker. Jake drops to his knees out in the open reception area, tilting his head slightly upward and holding completely still. "Goooood, boy," Rosalie purrs, balancing the little orange snack on his nose and stepping back, looking down at him haughtily. She waits a good five seconds before giving him permission to eat it, which he does after flipping it upward and snapping it right out of the air.
Jake is a regular client of Mistress Rose, and someone we're all very well familiar with in the shop. As always, I have no idea what goes on with him in the privacy of her BDSM boudoir, but I do know that one of his kinks is public humiliation, so his sessions with her always end in a similar manner.
"Good boy!" Rosalie exclaims again as he looks up at her, smiling and chewing with a closed mouth. When he's done, she pats his head and gives him a little scratch behind the ear, his eyes closing briefly in delight. "All right, you go on home now, doggie, and I will see you next week, same time."
He actually ruffs at her before he leaves, bounding out of the shop like a literal pup given an order. I shake my head and don't even let myself wonder what he gets out of this treatment in the end. I'm not one to judge, but I have a vivid imagination, so the less I know about her clients and their proclivities, the better.
"Ugh," Rose sighs, her shoulders slumping briefly before she straightens up to her full, towering 5'11 height again. She pulls her wavy, wheat-colored hair out of its tight twist, shaking her head to let it fall loose around her shoulders. "Last one for the day, thank god." The statuesque beauty struts over to me at the front counter, her black patent stilettos clacking loudly against the tile floor. "What about you ladies?"
I smile up at my lifelong friend and business partner, so used to her intimidating demeanor that it doesn't faze me in the slightest. "Well I had one more on the books for tonight, but apparently he called an hour ago and canceled, which I've just heard about right now." I shoot an accusatory glance over at Ali, who has turned back to her reading now that the show's over with Jake, and she doesn't acknowledge me other than a middle finger over her shoulder. That's the third time she's flipped me off in the last ten minutes now. If I didn't love her like a sister, I'd drop her toothbrush in the toilet before she got home tonight.
"Hmm," Rosalie muses, finger-combing her shiny locks as she leans against the glass countertop with its rows of gleaming body jewelry inside. "Want to grab some dinner then, if you're planning on just heading out?"
I consider her offer for a second, my stomach rumbling at the thought of something hot and cheesy to fill it up. "I guess I could—" I start to reply, but then I'm interrupted by the bells on the shop's main door.
All three of us turn toward the noise as the most heart-stoppingly gorgeous man I've ever seen walks into the shop. He looks to Rose and me first as he enters, but goes straight for Ali at the computer, which makes sense as she's technically the receptionist and the front line for clients when they come in. Still, I'm a little jealous, and a whole lot hopeful that he might be here for my services in the end.
Ali stares up at him in awe from her chair as he clears his throat to speak to her, and I notice her thighs clench together where she sits. Stifling a dreamy sigh, I can't blame her even one tiny little bit; the man is fine with a glowing capital F.
"Hi," the stunning stranger says to her, and her eyes light up at his smooth, deep voice. "I'm here to see The Gun? Um, Iz Swan . . . please."
I can feel the heat in my face as he says my name, as well as see Ali's stark disappointment as she turns her face toward me and his eyes follow. Barely resisting the urge to primp my stylish mess of dark-brown, shoulder-length waves or to check my smoky makeup in the reflection from the glass countertop below me, I meet the beautiful man's stare and attempt a friendly smile.
"That's me—I'm Iz. Right here," I say kind of stupidly, but one side of his mouth turns up in a crooked smirk as our gazes lock, and suddenly I forget that I've said anything at all. "What, uh, what can I do for you?"
Rosalie shoots me a wide-eyed, meaningful glance as he moves toward us at the end of the counter, his wild, copper-colored hair glowing with streaks of gold under the bright lights of the shop. He's just barely shorter than she is in her heels, probably 6'1 or so, with a long-limbed, thin frame that suits my tastes exactly. Up close I can see the striking pear-green of his eyes, thick lashes and strong brows, a straight, narrow nose leading to full, dark-pink lips, and a sharp, square jaw covered in reddish stubble. Drool floods my mouth, my panties getting a similar treat, as he stops a respectable distance from us with a hint of musky man-scent accompanying him.
"I read about your shop in Skin 2 Skin magazine," he begins, looking back and forth between Rose and me before he captures my eyes again. "I have a . . ."—he pauses and clears his throat—"a kink I'd like to discuss with you."
A devastating disappointment the likes I've never known washes over me, and I swear I can almost feel tears prick my eyes as I break our gaze and motion toward my partner. "Oh, well it's not me you want then, it's Mistress Rose. She handles all the kink in our business."
Rosalie smiles pleasantly as he turns to look at her, but he shakes his head and returns his stare to me immediately. "Ah, sorry. I'm not being clear. What I mean is, I have a specific tattoo kink, and I hoped this might be the right place for me to fulfill it."
I blink at him a few times, completely confused by what's unfolding here. "I uh, I um . . ."
"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" he presses, an almost desperate gleam in his mesmerizing green gaze. "I promise I won't take up too much of your time."
Like that's my issue.
"Uh, yes," I finally say, snapping out of my stupor. "Yes, of course. Come on, my office is just this way."
Rosalie flashes me a wink and a thumbs up behind the gorgeous man's back as he moves past her to follow my outstretched arm, pointing him in the right direction. I shrug, giving her my best approximation of a 'holy-shit-I-don't-even-fucking-know' look when I'm sure he can't see, causing her to bite her lip to suppress a laugh at my expense.
I turn away from her to lead the man into the back, down the short hallway housing one tattoo and one piercing studio each, and finally to my small office at the very end. We take a sharp left turn into the room, and I shut the door behind us.
"So, uh . . .?" I say questioningly, motioning for him to sit in the extra chair along the wall on one side of the room.
"Edward," he supplies. "Edward Cullen. I'm so sorry, my nerves got the better of me out there and I completely forgot my manners." He reaches toward me with an open hand, his long, slender fingers each covered in a silver ring.
Hoping my palm isn't hot and sweaty as I feel, I go ahead and shake his hand, trying not to melt at the warm softness of his skin. "Oh, it's fine. Nice to meet you, Edward. As you know, I'm Iz—uh, Isabella, or Bella—you can call me whichever you want."
Holy shit, is that really how I just introduced myself to this man? I'm flooded with embarrassment at behaving like a blubbering moron in his presence, but all he does is smile, and damn if it doesn't look genuine and oh so good.
"Yes. Right," he replies. "Like I said, I've read several articles about your shop. You do amazing work, and . . . of course, there's the other side of it as well."
Rosalie and I opened this unconventional business together five years ago, and it took off in ways neither of us would have ever expected. She's the 'kink' side and I'm the 'ink'—giving us (K)Inked, a tattoo shop slash BDSM parlor, one with a much varied and eccentric clientele. Our clients cross over between us sometimes, but the lines have yet to be blurred between our services. Which is why I'm still not sure what I'm about to discuss with this impossibly handsome man.
"Thank you," I say in acknowledgement of his compliment. "So, what exactly can I do for you then?"
Edward clears his throat, looking slightly self-conscious, so I attempt to take the edge off by sliding into my chair behind the desk. He takes my hint and grabs the extra seat from against the wall, bringing it closer so there's only the small table between us. Once he's seated, he folds one foot over the other thigh, letting his hands relax atop his legs as he speaks.
"Well, as I mentioned out front, I have a bit of a kink. It's usually something I have to keep under wraps when I'm getting a tattoo, but I was hoping—seeing that you get a, um, special kind of customer here—that it's something I might actually be able to fulfill out in the open, or, at least between us."
I have no idea what he's talking about, so I shake my head and hope I'm not misunderstanding as badly as the worst thought that suddenly pops into my head. "I don't offer 'happy-ending tattoos' or anything, if that's what you're thinking . . ."
He looks absolutely horrified at my suggestion, his cheeks and nose taking on a deep tinge of pink. "Holy shit, no! That's not what I mean at all," he exclaims, and I instantly regret my words. He's too pretty to look this upset, especially at something I said. If he's going to sweat over anything, I would much rather it be me, under me and over me, inside me from any angle.
"Oh god, I am so sorry if I offended you!" I say, feeling miserably awkward at both my big mouth and my mistaken train of thought. At the rate I'm going, he's going to wish he'd come in looking for Rose after all by the time we're done with this conversation.
"No! You didn't, at all. Please, it's fine. I'm the one who's making a mess of this whole thing." His face scrunches up adorably, one hand coming up to rub his forehead as he takes a second to gather himself. "Let me try this again . . .
"I like tattoos. I mean, I like getting tattoos. A lot. As in, I have a specific, uh, reaction to being tattooed." He pauses and looks at me expectantly, like he's hoping I'll pick up what he's putting down without him having to say the actual words.
I stare at him silently for a moment, my brain working furiously to figure out what exactly he's trying to tell me, when it finally clicks into place and my jaw drops. "You mean you . . . literally . . . get off on being tattooed?"
Edward smiles sheepishly and nods. "Yeah. And I was hoping that, with this shop being what it is, maybe that's something I could do—for myself!—while you add the final piece to my collection."
The world is tilting slightly around me. Is this real life? I pinch my own leg under the desk, and the sharp pain tells me that yes, it is, though I still have no idea what to do now that I've established that fact.
"You want to"—I pause and clear my throat—"jerk off, while I give you a tattoo?"
My face is so hot I think it might burst into flames at any moment, but he looks just as uncomfortable as I feel, so I try to appease myself with this and not let my own discomfort reduce me to ash where I sit.
"Yes," he says, and before I can respond he adds, "I know how it sounds, but I promise I'm not asking for anything more than your needle on my skin. I'll be a perfect gentleman the entire time. No expectations for extra services from you at all."
He'll be a perfect gentleman while he beats his meat in my presence? It takes everything in my power not to laugh at the sheer insanity of it all. Not at his request, even, but at the fact that I'm intrigued and even considering this proposal at all.
If his face is anything to go by, I'll bet his cock is fucking glorious.
I turn my head and clear my throat against my hand, hoping my dirty thoughts don't show plain on my face as I frantically try to think this through. "Well, um, Edward, this is all very, um . . ."
"Please," he says, sensing my hesitation and apparently being willing to plead with me for this. "I'll pay double. Triple even, if that's what it takes. I just . . . this is something I want so badly, and I'm running out of skin to fulfill it on. This could be my last chance to finally really feel it."
Edward's eyes are wide and glassy as he stares at me imploringly, desperately, his electric green gaze more powerful than any force I've seen before. "Okay," I almost whisper, disarmed by his magnetism, the word slipping out with a jolt to my rational thoughts. I can't believe I just agreed to this, but at the same time I'm wondering how soon he wants to get started.
This gorgeous man absolutely wilts at my response, his whole body sagging with what I assume is relief, and maybe a side of excitement, too. "Oh, thank god. Thank you so, so much."
I can only nod, still rather dumbstruck that I'm here, in this position, at all.
Edward stands and reaches into his jacket pocket, which I notice for the first time is a worn, black leather bomber. He has a fitted white t-shirt underneath, with a pair of dark-rinse jeans, and heavy black biker-boots on his feet.
I'm hot all over once again, nearly drooling at the perfection of his physical appearance, his clothes, his height, his wiry, mesomorphic frame. It's all just so much, and I can't believe that it's happening to me at all. What did I ever do to have the universe dole out this bizarre, yet incredible blessing on me?
Handing me a folded piece of paper, I'm treated further yet when Edward removes his jacket first and then his shirt. There's a roaring in my ears as my eager eyes feast on his chest, a blank canvas other than a smattering of fine hair over his toned pecs. He has tiny barbells in his nipples, one of the sexiest things I've ever seen on any man, and a trim waist with clearly-defined abs, a mouth-watering happy trail following the funnel of his hips into his pants.
My lady-boner is full on raging at this point, a desperate throb between my legs that's just begging for me to live out some unknown kink of my own, but then he pushes my hormones one step further by turning around and revealing the ink on his back.
I could fall out of my chair, the sheer beauty of the artwork etched into his skin bringing real, stinging tears to my eyes. It's a masterpiece of lines and color, soft against the hard planes of his shoulders and arms, a landscape of Raphael's cherubs amongst sky and sea and land.
My legs stand without any conscious thought on my part, drawn as I am to the incredible display of talent and artistry before me, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm standing behind Edward trailing my fingers over the elegant tattoos embedded within his flesh.
He flinches slightly when my cool fingers meet his hot skin, but then he sighs and relaxes under my reverent touch. I move from first one angel to the next and then the next, several dozen to discover hidden within clouds and trees and waves. I find the spot he mentioned, a few inches of bare, un-inked skin waiting for me to leave my mark, and I'm overcome with a desperate, clawing hunger to make this little piece of him my own.
"This spot is for me?" I ask after several moments of charged silence, pressing my fingers into the spot just above his right hip. The flesh is firm, solid muscle underneath, yielding but resistant all the same.
"Yes," he replies huskily, his voice low and gravelly, as if he hasn't spoken a word in years. It vibrates through me, like electricity lighting up my veins, igniting something in me I don't quite recognize, but I want.
I step back, instantly missing the feel of his warm skin against my palm, licking my suddenly dry lips and attempting to compose my completely frayed senses. "Okay," I say softly. "When, um . . . when would you like to begin?"
"Anytime," he says, turning toward me and fixing me with a look so scorching it's nearly obscene in its intensity. "Now. Tomorrow. Next week. Now," he repeats with a chuckle. "Whenever you're ready, so am I."
"I . . . I actually do have time now," I say, but it's nearly a breath. He leans forward to hear me better, and I swoon slightly with the heat of his forward-facing proximity. Why is he so hot? So physically perfect? So completely and utterly, disarmingly gah? A nervous sweat prickles my chest, but I swallow my jitters and steel myself to do this. I want to do this. Now that Edward is here and has presented me with this kinked idea, there is no way in hell I'm not going to do this. "My last client of the day canceled," I tell him, my voice strong and sure this time. "I can get you in right now."
"Oh, wow, this is perfect!" he exclaims, his look of pure happiness sending a thrill of excitement through my veins. "I brought you a sketch for inspiration"—he points to the folded-up piece of paper he handed me before, the one I'd dropped and abandoned on the desk when he'd removed his shirt and revealed his skin—"but I actually prefer for each artist to infuse a bit of their own style into their section. Are you okay with that?"
I nod, my mind already whirling with creative vision. "Yes, that's fine. Why don't we go to my room—to uh, my studio—and I'll get you set up before I quickly draw up a transfer."
"Okay," he agrees, so I grab his sketch and then lead him to my tattoo studio a short way back up the hall. Once we're there, I consider the logistics for a moment and then take some time to adjust my bench to best suit what's about to happen. It's a Transformer of a chair, with sliding sections and removable parts that allow me to position it almost any way I could ever require. It takes a few tries, but in the end I'm left with something that seems promising.
"I think this will work," I tell Edward, who climbs aboard to test out the configuration. He's seated backwards with his chest facing the padded red leather back, his long legs straddling the seat, and he's tall enough that with the headrest removed I can see his face and neck above the top of the chair. Remarkably, and most importantly, as though this were somehow meant to be, after sliding the backrest up as far as it will go, there's just enough of a gap between the two bars connecting the sections for him to get a hand in there to do his part in all this.
Settled comfortably, I leave him there to go prepare both myself as well as a sketch. I take a minute to pee and sop up the mess I've already made in my panties just discussing what I'm about to do with this man, then I wolf down a protein-enriched granola bar and take a deep drink of water before quickly drawing up the design I plan to mark him with forever. I keep the details to myself as I have Ali print out a waiver for him to fill out and sign, though her demanding questions and indignant glares at my silence are something I know I'll have to answer for later.
Back in my studio, I have Edward write in his details before I photocopy his credit card and ID, and with all the legalities out of the way, I lock the door with us inside the room and get ready to fulfill his kinky fantasy.
"All right, let's do this," I say as I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves and prepare to prep the area. He's waiting patiently in my chair, in the position we deemed perfect for this earlier, his shirt and rings off but his pants still secured. "Do you need to, um . . ." I trail off awkwardly, motioning to his still-covered crotch.
"Oh, no. Not yet," he replies. "It takes a while for the reaction to kick in. I'll let you know when it's time, if it doesn't become obvious on its own."
I laugh lightly at his little joke, trying my hardest not to imagine what it will be like when it all actually happens, not wanting to psych myself out any more than I already am. I have an actual job to do here, and I need to do it well. The last thing I want is to leave a poor impression not only on this man, but on his skin.
After shaving and sanitizing the area I'm about to work on, I apply the transfer of my design and then set about gathering my supplies. I load up my tray with different colors of ink in disposable cups, paper towels, a squeeze water bottle, some petroleum jelly . . . With one final inventory of it all, I roll the cart over to where Edward sits waiting, finally plopping down on my stool and retrieving my machine from the bottom tier of the cart.
"Are you ready?" I ask Edward from my place behind him, my 'gun' poised over his skin in a waiting hand. That term has never bothered me like it does some others, even having the nickname bestowed upon me at the shop where I apprenticed before striking out on my own, eventually opening this shop in partnership with Rose. The joke was that the machine is a weapon in my hand, blowing all others out of the water with a natural talent that propelled me to my status as a renowned tattoo artist the world over. I am The Gun, and I embrace it.
"I'm ready," Edward replies, taking a deep pull of air and blowing it out slowly through his nose, and I take that as my cue to begin.
The needle glides easily across his flesh, the familiar buzz and vibration of it in my hand coming as naturally to me as my own breath. I have the outline done rather quickly, the black ink stark against the empty swath of his light skin, and I'm about to start my first color when I notice that he's palming a startlingly large bulge in his pants.
"Uh, everything okay?" I ask him awkwardly, not sure if the real deal is about to begin here.
"Yep," he says, but it's slightly strained and breathy, and I wonder if I should say something to put him at ease.
"You can, um, you can . . . start . . . whenever you want to," is what I come up with, and a small grin graces his mouth from where I can see him in the mirror on the wall opposite us.
"Okay, but not quite yet. I want to let it build," he replies.
I nod and get back to work.
Within ten minutes I have the face filled in and shaded, and when I glance up into the mirror to check how Edward is doing, I can see through the gap in the chair that he's now rubbing what is clearly an enormous erection through his pants. I swallow the saliva pooling on and around my tongue, unable to stop myself from wondering just exactly what it will look like when he finally pulls his mystery member out.
Doing my damndest to stay focused with my needle against his skin, I carry on, coloring and shading until a slight groan from Edward pulls me from my trance. I look up again, and his face is growing flushed, eyes hooded, lips plump and pursed. His eyes are on me in the mirror as he brings both hands to his fly and finally lowers the zipper.
I can't look away, but in my peripheral vision I see him release a long, thick, deliciously dark-pink cock, and when I finally—shamefully—tear my gaze away from his to really look, I'm both surprised and not to see a shiny silver ring circling through the hole in the tip and coming out the underside of the head. A Prince Albert, my very favorite penis piercing, and if I thought I was turned on by all of this before, it was nothing compared to the heat now scorching through my loins.
"Keep going," Edward tells me huskily, his eyes capturing mine in the mirror again, and I have to squeeze my thighs together before I can force myself to continue.
Staring down at my work, I can only sense when Edward finally starts stroking, just the barest of slow movements so he doesn't jostle me or my machine. I chew my lip to help keep me focused as I finish filling and shading the second wing, with only the lower half of the body remaining before my side of the job here is done.
After a few minutes more, a slight jolt breaks my focus, and a quick glance in the mirror shows me that Edward is now really into it, his fist pumping up and down with a rhythm I can feel in my pulse. He opens his eyes once he realizes I've stopped, actually turning his head to look me straight in the eye and asking, "Do you have any lube?"
His voice is all panting and breathy, the shock of his question flipping the switch in my brain to 'off,' and without really thinking about what I'm doing, I pass him the little cup of petroleum jelly from my tray. He scoops a bit out with one finger, handing it back to me before smearing the slick substance all over his cock. The lubricant makes a squishy noise as he resumes stroking, the sound reminiscent of heavy sex, bringing goosebumps to my arms along with a hot prickling of sweat to my neck.
"Don't stop. Please, don't stop," Edward tells me, his voice nearly a deep and throaty whine, and with my own heart pounding and a white noise in my ears, I take a breath and press my gun back against his skin.
He groans loudly as I dig deep to imbed the color, his hand now gripping tight and moving fast. I swallow and do my best to keep things still, thankful I'm on a wider area of the cherub's body should my needle and ink suddenly jump. Another moan from Edward tells me he's nearing the finish line, and I can only hope I don't get this done before he reaches it.
I'm just making my way down the final leg to the tiny angel's foot when Edward distracts me again, and I look up to see his face is flushed red, eyes clenched shut, his mouth a tight line of pursed lips as he all out pounds the absolute fuck out of his cock. He throws his head back as I watch in awe, pulling my machine away just in time for his whole body to seize as his release rocks through him, cum shooting out across the room to splatter the floor and mirror.
My mouth is hanging open as I watch him ride out this high, sweat beading on his forehead and a drop dripping down one temple. The climax now past, he continues to stroke himself in slow, languid movements, eventually resting his head against the back of the chair as his breathing slows down to normal. Barely knowing what to do with myself anymore, I go with the only thing I can think of at this moment and finish the last quarter-inch of my work. With that, I sit back, and we're both done.
I clear my throat as I stand, placing my machine back in its holder to be sterilized later, my legs slightly wobbly with both desire and strain. I can hardly believe what I've just experienced, as a witness and a participant, and I'm not sure if there's anything I can, or even should, say.
"Thank you," Edward mumbles, his eyes still closed with his cheek pressed against the headrest. He takes one final deep breath before sitting up and looking at me, his pear-green gaze lazy and satisfied.
"You're welcome?" I say with a nervous titter, removing my gloves for something to do with my trembling hands. I toss them in the trash before getting a fresh set, along with some paper towels and a bottle of sanitizer to take care of his mess.
"Oh shit, let me!" he exclaims when he sees what I'm doing, standing up from the chair and tucking his now flaccid, though still very impressive dick into his pants and zipping up.
I hand him the paper towels and spray bottle, standing back and watching as he makes quick work of the cleanup. He turns to me when he's done, and we both just stare at each other for a few seconds, eyes wide and our faces similar shades of red, until finally he breaks and suddenly we're both laughing hysterically.
"I'll never forget this," he tells me once we've settled down, and I smile, knowing that it will be etched into my memory forever as well.
Now calm and collected, I put on a fresh pair of gloves and clean the last of the blood and ink from his fresh tattoo, finally allowing him a look at my design in the mirror when I'm done. His eyes go wide as he takes in the final piece completing the mural across his back, and he blinks a few times before a crooked grin blooms over his mouth.
"You're wicked," he says, his smirk telling me he means it as a compliment. I smile, coming up behind him and looking down at my work, proud of my sweet little angel with horns.
– (K) –
The next day at work I can hardly focus, going from one tattoo to the next on autopilot.
I barely slept, tossing and turning all night, burning through not one, but two sets of batteries on my favorite vibrator as I replayed all that had happened over and over again in my mind.
Edward had left the shop with a freshly-bandaged lower back and a promise to let me know that it was healing okay, along with an open invitation for touch ups should he ever require them. I wasn't sure if he would ever actually return, or if I even wanted him to, or if maybe our experience was something so unique that it's best left as a one-time thing in the past.
If the dreams I'm having are any indication, though, somewhere deep inside I want more. One more look, one more conversation, one more chance to hop on that glorious dick and ride it until I'm screaming out his name.
One thing is for certain, I'll never be the same again after meeting Edward Cullen, and I honestly can't say that I'm sorry for it.
Through all of Ali's pestering and threats, I remain stoic in my refusal to share any details of what transpired between Edward and me. He wanted a tattoo and I gave him one, that's all I'll tell her, and if she was listening at the door or has even an inkling of what actually went on in my studio that night, she doesn't say so and eventually stops pouting.
I read the Lucifer fanfiction where he has three highly-functioning cocks, along with many others as strange and scintillating as Ali promised they would be, but smutty and sexy as they are, none of them can get me as hot between the legs as Edward did without ever touching me himself. A fact I lament more and more as every day goes by that he doesn't reappear.
Three months since he first set foot in my shop, Edward finally returns, his bronze hair sun-lightened and a slight summer tan on his skin. I'm sitting in exactly the same place as when I first met him, this time sketching a design of a black three-headed dog, reminding me way too much of the devil's mutant peen.
I look up as the bells on the door jingle, the pencil falling out of my hand and landing on the floor. Edward smiles shyly at me as he makes his way to the counter, this time finding me alone. I'm thankful I sent Alice home for the evening twenty minutes ago, and just as glad that today happened to be Rosalie's day off. I have Edward all to myself in the empty shop, where nothing that's said or done between us can be shared.
I dare to hope.
My stomach tightens as he stops before me, our bodies separated by the two-foot-deep glass display counter. He looks good. Damn good. Better even than I remembered, and that's saying something because my memories of him have been stoking a raging inferno of lust that I sate every night in his name.
"Hi," he says, his long-fingered hands splayed against the countertop. "How've you been?"
I laugh lightly, the question seeming odd and misplaced with our history, but I don't know what else I actually want him to say just yet. "Fine," I reply with a small shrug. "You?"
He lifts one hand to comb it through his hair, tousling the already messy locks further. "Fine, too. And . . . not so fine."
I raise one eyebrow, puzzled by his response. "Oh? Is everything okay with the tattoo?"
"What? Oh, yes. It's great. It healed beautifully. Do you want to see?"
My mouth waters as I remember the masterpiece on his skin, and the delectable lines of his body. Yes, I absolutely want another look, as much as it might pain me should he walk out again, and this time do it for good. "Sure," I say lightly, trying not to let my hungry enthusiasm show. "Why don't we go to the back?"
I lock the front door—it's nearly closing time, anyway—and we head to my studio down the hall. Jacket-free this time in the heat of a New York City summer, Edward peels off his snug navy t-shirt, leaving him standing there in low-slung gray cargo shorts. My eyes trail the chiseled lines of his chest and abs, appreciating every inch of his bare skin before he turns to show me his back.
He was right, the tattoo has healed well, completing the mural perfectly, if I do say so myself. "Looks good," I tell him, smiling as he turns to face me again, but he's biting his lip as though unsure.
"That's not really why I came in today," he says, and my heartbeat speeds up at his words.
"No?" I reply, trying desperately to play it cool, hyperaware of all the rich, flowing ink on my own exposed skin as his eyes rake over me hungrily. My voice shakes a bit, betraying me. "Why then?"
"I stayed true to my word, when I was here last. I was a gentleman, or as much of one as I could be under the circumstances. I didn't expect or ask for anything more from you, like I promised."
"Yes," I agree, not quite understanding the direction of his comments, unsure myself now of where he's going with this.
"I tried to leave it at that, to stay away and let it all be what it was, but I can't stop thinking about you," he confesses, taking a step closer, his gaze moving from my body to my face. His well-worn, low-top Converse shoes squeak slightly against the floor, the sound making me jump with heightened nerves. "Of what we shared," he continues. "It seemed like something rare and special, to me at least. I can't help but wonder if there might be something more there for us to explore."
"Really?" I breathe, barely daring to believe the words I've been feeling for months, the ones I've been dreaming about hearing from his mouth finally coming true. "Because I think so, too."
Edward smiles, his eyes brightening with mischief, with a longing in his gaze I'm sure is mirrored in mine. He takes a step closer and then another, until he's standing directly before me, looking down into my flushed and eager face. One hand comes up and weaves itself into my hair, holding my head steady as his full, plump lips descend on mine.
He kisses me softly, slowly, a caress of both my mouth and my soul, until I'm trembling and panting and ready to beg for more. My arms wrap around his back, pressing our bodies tight against each other, urging him to kiss me like that again. He does, only pulling back when I can feel him long and hard within his pants, and he surprises me by picking me up by the ass and walking us over to my tattoo chair. It's in its fully flat position, cleaned and sterilized after my last client, and he lays me down upon it, leaning over my form.
"Well, Bella," Edward says, his lips hot against my ear, finally deciding on a name to call me after I gave him several options the day we met. Hardly anyone calls me Bella, it's been 'Iz' for as long as I can remember, but I love the sound of it from his mouth and I want to hear him say again and again and again. "I've shown you mine, and now I think it's time for you to show me yours."
I couldn't agree more.
His lips scorch a trail down my neck as he lowers himself atop me, our hands roaming, bodies pressed together tightly, careful not to get too crazy and tip ourselves right off the narrow bench. The cold tile floor actually seems halfway enticing as clothes are quickly shed, my chest now bare against the warmth of his. I need to move, to have the freedom to go wild on him as I've dreamed, but that brief thought is forgotten as one tight, pierced nipple disappears into his mouth.
My head tips back as I moan loudly, his knees just fitting aside my hips as he pushes himself up to hover above me, his lips and tongue still laving attention on my breasts as his hands reach down to pop the button and unzip my frayed, light-denim short-shorts. I help him shimmy me out of them, his long, slender fingers pushing aside my red lace panties and immediately finding the heat between my legs, a soaking-wet ache awaiting him there.
"Fucking hell," he breathes against my clavicles, clearly impressed by how ready and wanting I am for him as he easily slides two digits deep inside. I shamelessly grind against his hand as he moves it slowly within my body, my own fingers weaving into his hair as I pull his head up to crush our mouths together again.
We kiss sloppily, a mess of tongues and panting breath as he works me toward the edge, until I'm moaning his name against his lips while a powerful, too-long-awaited orgasm courses through my body. It's intense, so much better than any dildo or vibrator or memory of him could conjure, and greedy as I am I hope to prove that further on his cock.
"Please tell me you have a condom," I say as my hands go straight for his pants, my desire fueled even further as he chuckles softly above me.
Smug bastard. It suits him perfectly, though, and I'm already loving these extra little bits and pieces of him I see. I want to know so much more about him, every little detail that makes him who he is, but I'm willing to start with how it feels to have his dick buried eight-inches deep.
Edward reaches into a back pocket, pulling out a black leather wallet and chain, unhooking it from his belt loop and dropping it to the floor once he's removed the shiny gold packet. I grin—a Magnum XL, of course. He holds it gently between his teeth as he one-handedly pushes down his pants, struggling slightly from our precarious position on the bench.
"Just get up," I tell him, pressing my hands against his chest and urging him to stand. "I want to be on top, anyway."
His eyes widen at my request, but he quickly complies with a smirk, sliding off his shorts and boxer briefs before taking my place, lying down. I've shed my panties in the meantime, tossed them aside, likely never to be worn again, so now I'm standing in front of him naked, my half-body of ink on full display.
I watch as his gaze travels over me, absorbing all the decorations gracing my flesh. A garden of colorful wildflowers on my arms, swirls of wind and curling vines surrounding the lion's maned face on my abdomen, blown leaves leading a trail over my hips to my legs, nipple hoops, a jeweled bellybutton bar—and more still for him to discover across my back.
"You're beautiful," he tells me as I climb atop him. I smile at the compliment, taking the condom he hands me as I grip his growing cock and work it until it's solid. Once he's hard as steel and sheathed, I fulfill my own fantasy and sink down on top of him, his fingers gripping my hips and guiding us in rhythm.
My hands are on my own breasts as I move, my head thrown back in ecstasy as he fills me even more perfectly than I dreamed. "Come on, baby," he urges, the casual way he calls me that twice as thrilling as when he used my name before. "Ride it. Ride me harder. Fuck yeah, harder!"
The bench is rocking precariously beneath us as I do exactly as he asks, angling my movements to get the exact friction that I need to fall over the edge once more, and all too soon I'm clenching and moaning for him like I did for myself in my dreams. He finishes just after me, his arms holding me tight when I collapse against his chest, breathing hard.
If there was ever any question of there being more between us, if there was a spark or a light or an entire blazing fire, it's been answered now with our bodies, and one day soon, hopefully our hearts.
"So," Edward says after a moment of blissful silence while he softly strokes my back. "Do you want to get some dinner or something?"
I giggle from my place still atop him, thankful he's willing to take things a step further yet. We have so much to say, to do, to explore and discover, both inside and out, and I'm eager to see just how far it all will go.
"You bet your ass I do," I tell him, sitting up and smiling, the look in his eyes telling me this is only our beginning.