PULSE [H.S]

041

"Lust is the craving for salt of a man who is dying of thirst." — Frederick Buechner

I've never been on the other end of a tattoo gun.

It's so strange to see Harry holding it. He takes the stencil I made up and puts it on my skin, right where my underwear line normally sits. I tugged the band upwards so it wouldn't be in his way. It was weird taking my pants off for this, too.

Normally, clients getting a tattoo in this area would have a drape over the rest of the area, but I didn't feel like it was necessary with Harry. I mean, he's pretty familiar with that region of my body already.

"I'm nervous," Harry admits.

I grab his hand, squeezing it. He's so fucking cute. I say, "There's nothing to be nervous about."

He points out, "If I mess up, it will be permanently marked on your body."

I laugh. "You'll be fine. Stop being such a baby."

"You better be nice to me, or I will mess it up on purpose," he says.

I guide him through the steps to prepare for the tattoo, and he follows my instructions perfectly. I tell him to dip the needle in the ink, and then when he's ready, he can step on the pedal.

He looks up at me one more time, asking, "You sure?" I nod at him, and he smirks, saying, "Verbal consent, pretty girl."

I laugh, remembering that from when I first gave him a tattoo and he gave me some of my first boxing lessons. He was such a cocky bastard. Still is.

"I'm sure," I tell him.

He's silent for a few moments, and then he nods, as if he just gave himself a silent pep talk. His left hand touches my skin above where the tattoo is, and I'm already questioning if this was a good idea.

He starts the tattoo gun, lowering it to my skin. The needle hits my skin, and it doesn't feel like what I expected it to. I say, "Ooh."

Harry immediately stops, looking at me with panic clear in his features. He says, "What?"

"Nothing. It feels weird. I give people tattoos all the time, but I never knew what it felt like," I say.

He shushes me, saying he needs to focus. He starts again, and this time I just silently observe him. He's so focused on my skin and the tattoo, like he's determined to make sure it's perfect.

It's a small tattoo, so it shouldn't take very long. His lines are already looking good, too. I thought maybe I'd have to go over some of them or touch some things up after he was done, but it doesn't look like I'll need to.

My mom had a lot of tattoos. She had a full sleeve on one of her arms, actually, and I always thought it was the coolest thing about her.

I've just always loved the way that tattoos let you change something about yourself that is essentially the same as everyone else. Regardless of race, we all have skin. And tattoos can make your skin different, which is epic.

I gaze at Harry's face, and how smooth his skin is. I look at the curve of his nose and the dip above his lips. My eyes wander over his jaw, and the defined line of it makes him look intimidating.

He's so pretty.

My gaze falls to his arms and gawk over how prominent his muscles are. I look at the ink on his skin and imagine what new tattoos could be put between the current ones. I stare at the veins that pop out of his arms, especially the ones in his forearms.

And then his hands. His fucking hands. I want to kiss those hands. I am so obsessed with them. His long fingers, the tattoos that litter them, and the rings that he always has on. Shit, I really do have a thing for hands. Or maybe just his hands.