My name is Ivy.
Tonight I’m half-naked on Knox’s tattoo table, shirt and bra shoved up to my neck, lying on my left side so he can start the huge blackwork piece that will crawl from under my breast, down my ribs, and over my hip bone. The shop is locked, lights low, just the buzz of the machine and the low throb of music in the background.
Knox is six-three of pure inked muscle, sleeves of dark art, silver rings in his n*****s you can see through his thin black tank, and a reputation for being a complete asshole unless you’re on his table. Then he’s worse.
He snaps on fresh black gloves (that sound alone makes my thighs clench), dips the needle, and the first line bites into my skin right under my tit. It hurts like fire. It also shoots straight between my legs.
“Still,” he growls, on
