He wraps his lips around the tight bud, and worries the other with his fingers. I reach up with one hand and tangle my fingers in his hair, and he backs up and glares at me.

“Elbows on the stairs,” he repeats.

“No, I want to touch you.”

“I’ll restrain you if I have to. Elbows on the stairs.”

Fuck.

I comply, completely turned on by his need to control me. To control this.

His mouth covers the other breast, and he sets about making me crazy again, writhing beneath him.

He suddenly pulls back, grips my hips and lifts me, and flips me onto my knees.

“I need you,” he growls, and I hear him push his pants down his hips. “Now.”

He slams into me, hard, and I cry out in surprise and just a little pain. The apa feels larger than usual, pressed against the very core of me.

“Jesus, baby, you’re so wet and tight.” He moves out and in once again, as hard as before, and I moan.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“This is gonna be rough, baby.”

“Good,” I respond.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Just do it, babe. Fuck me.”

He spanks my right ass cheek and grips my hips roughly and begins to pound in and out of me in a fast, desperate rhythm. He spanks me again, twice, and I moan at the pleasure of the sting, loving that he is crazy with lust for me, that I can make him lose himself in me.

“Fuck, baby.” He tightens his grip on me and slams into me one last time, his release pushing through him, and takes me over with him.

He’s panting and shaking behind me. He doesn’t pull out of me. He leans over and kisses between my shoulder blades and rests his cheek there, his hands planted on the stairs by my elbows.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, making me smile.

“I’m fantastic. Are you okay?”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, babe.” I kiss his bicep. “You rocked my fucking world.”

He chuckles and pulls out of me, making me gasp as I feel that apa pull along the walls of my pussy.

“Jesus, I’m glad you’re not afraid of needles.” I turn and sit my bottom on the stairs, and look up into his bright gray eyes. He’s relaxed now, the anger and frustration seemingly released with rough sex and a hot orgasm.

“You’d look amazing with a tattoo,” he murmurs.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You were inside me less than thirty seconds ago and now you’re being cruel.”

“I’m not being cruel, I’m being serious.”

I tilt my head and run my eyes over his sexy tattoos, and for the first time in my life, I consider it. “Yours are hot.”

“I have an excellent artist, if you ever change your mind.” His eyes are warm and filled with lust, his lips in a half smile looking down at me, and something shifts in me.

“Let’s go talk to him tomorrow.”

Nate’s jaw drops and his eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ll consider it.” I shrug, trying not to show how nervous I am at the thought of someone coming at me with needles in a gun-thingy, but he sees right through me.

He always sees right through me.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” he murmurs.

I shake my head. “Adding permanent art work to my body and undergoing torture at the hands of a needle is not something I’d do for any man. Maybe it’s time to face a few of my fears.”

He laughs and pulls me to my feet, throws me over his shoulder and slaps my ass, then climbs the stairs.

“Shower,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“Good idea.”

***

“Are you sure about this?” Nate asks.

“No.”

“Do you want to leave?” He grips my hand harder and kisses my temple.

“No.”

“What the hell, McKenna?” The tattoo-covered man smirks at Nate and smiles kindly at me. He’s the guy with the weapons of mass destruction. “You’re gonna be fine, sugar. What you’re getting is tiny, and it’ll take me all of ten minutes, tops.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I close my eyes and lean my head back in the tattoo chair. Mr. Tattoo leans the chair back so I’m lying flat.

“Okay, pull your pants down.”

“Fuck, dude, really?” Nate glares at him and it makes me giggle.

“Just a perk of my job, man.” He smiles and shrugs, and I relax until I see him pick up a gun-like thing and come toward me.

“Wait.” He stops with his eyebrows raised. I lick my lips. “Um, how many tattoos have you done?”

“Thousands,” he responds.

“Are you good with that gun-thingy?” I ask and he glares at me.

“This is not a gun. It’s a machine.”

Oh.

“Are you good with your machine?” I ask and a wolfish smile spreads across his handsome face and Nate swears under his breath again.

“Honey, you have no idea.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay,” he sits forward, his elbows on his knees, and looks me in the eye. “I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years. I majored in art in college, so I’m pretty good. I’ve never had an unsatisfied customer. You saw the portfolio earlier.”

I nod and take a deep breath. Besides, he’s right, what I’ve chosen is super small.

“Sweetheart, we wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think he’s the best.” Nate squeezes my hand reassuringly again and I relax a little.

“Okay.” I unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down so my left hip bone is exposed. I point out where I want it. “Right there.”

“No problem, just sit back and take some deep breaths.” Tattoo guy – I’ve forgotten his real name by now in my panicked horror – rubs the stencil on my skin, pours the ink into little tiny plastic jars, and picks up his machine.

When he turns to me with it in hand, I feel my eyes go wide. “You’re going to try to kill me with that thing, aren’t you.”

“No,” he laughs hard and shakes his head. “This is going to be quick, really.”

“Look at me,” Nate says, his voice full of humor. I look up into his soft gray eyes and grip his hand more firmly as I feel Tattoo guy grip my hip with one hand. “Just focus on me, baby. What do you want to do when we leave here?” He brushes my hair off my face and smiles down at me. The machine starts up and I flinch.