Business magnate's daughter, Isla Templeton (Feather), is the youngest of André Templeton's three children. And the top topic in the upper-class gossip in New York City.
Isla has always been a fighter; after losing her mother at a young age by sui...
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As I lock eyes with him from across the room, a thrilling rush of desire electrifies me.
Reclining on the bed, I pulled my shirt over my head and signaled him to look away; he smiled, moving towards the table with all his tools. I grab a small towel to cover my breasts, leaving the side of my body exposed for him to ink his design.
Claude looked at me, never losing focus of the design he was painting over my body with a red pencil.
The mere thought of his touch—his breath hot against my skin, ignited a fierce, consuming fire within me.
My mind spiraled with visions of being entwined in his arms, sharing moments of raw, untamed passion.
Cloud sat comfortably beside me, whispering, "Feather, breathe, okay?"
A mix of nerves and excitement coursed through me, his skilled hands ready. I steal glances at him, admiring his focused expression and the precise movements of his hands.
"You'll feel kind of like a cat scratching you."
I nodded. Taking a deep breath, I signal to start.
With every touch of the needle, waves of a new sensation washed over me, pain and pleasure entwined in a dance of intensity.
"Are you in love with her?" I asked, avoiding eye contact.
He clenched his jaw, focusing on my skin. "No, I don't love her," he said, straightening his back as he cleaned the needle of his tattoo gun. "Not anymore."
"Was Lisa your first love?" I asked curiously.
"Something like that, Feather. But I wasn't very good with her."
Displeasure was evident in my voice as I moved my hand from my head to the arm of his chair.
As the tattoo takes shape, his touch is gentle yet firm. I surrendered to the sensation, the sound of the needle creating a rhythmic melody that lulls me into a state of bliss.
As Cloud's gentle hands kept hovering over my skin, I closed my eyes to keep myself distracted.
His touch, his breathing near my face, the pain. I couldn't hold it anymore. It felt almost erotic.
After he finished the final touches, I sat up slowly.
"Are you okay, love?" he asks, handing me some small jars of ointments.
Standing in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath and slowly raise my arm, letting it lay on my head. The beautiful design stretches across my scars.
I trace my fingers over the lines and curves, feeling the raised edges and the smoothness of the ink.
"Don't touch it," he said with a whisper.
As I admire the tattoo, I feel pride and satisfaction. I can't help but smile as I gaze at Cloud, who left his mark on my skin and my heart.
Claude rolled his chair in my direction; he slowly placed his hands on my waist, tracing his fingers on my skin.
I gasped.
I stood in between his legs. His hands gripping me tightly, sending all kinds of feelings down my body.
