Heart In A Cage

43

Isabella

He had never driven so fast before.

Ethan had been called during our perilous ride home and was demanded to provide for our "urgent" situation. Luckily, no one was lounged on the couch or slinking around the kitchen or corridors to witness Andreas basically hauling me all the way to his room in preparation for the tattooist's arrival, though I did catch the reek of Blake's cigarettes as we passed his room.

But now, the only scent I can take in is that of a masculine fragrance wafting through the air between me, Ethan, and Andrea, whom is sitting on a stool he'd dragged aggressively from the kitchen, along with one for the tattooist.

My boss has been beside me for the entire five hours, watching the inky plants become a stich on my skin with Ethan's talented strokes.

I'm yet to look down at them, fearing that my hasty decision was a mistake. So I observe Andreas' bare chest, the blueprint to what designs are being replicated on me. The scratches I'd caused have damaged his skin in long slashes from his collar to navel, so Ethan has to use his imagination to work out what has been drawn over the distorted parts of the tattoos. For an obvious reason, my boyfriend has propped a cushion onto his lap.

"What are you hiding?" I ask teasingly. He hasn't dared to look back at Ethan's work—my tits, rather—since I'd thrown away my blouse and plopped onto the reclined couch to be tatted.

His gaze jumps to mine, then down to my breasts for a brief second, and back to the living room where it darts uncontrollably. He doesn't speak. He holds tighter and sits in silence.

Ethan pauses his work, laughs lightly, then continues puncturing my skin with that intimidatingly sharp needle. I've gotten used to the pain after having suffered with it for the corner of my shoulders and entire length spanning from my fingers to forearm, but it's still an effort not to yank myself away when I feel every piercing injection into my chest.

"I think he's nervous," I muse. "Do you think he's nervous, Ethan?"

"I think the question is why he's nervous. Huh, big guy? You've been as hard as a brick ever since we had our strictly professional consultation." Ethan doesn't lose his focus even when Andreas swings his head to him.

"This may be professional," he snarls, "but I cannot resist getting excited with my lady's breasts at full exposure. Please forgive me since it disturbs you so much."

Ethan pauses once more, and then sets his tool down to take a mental and physical break. But I'm not collected enough to suppress my amusement. I cackle and struggle to remain still.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," the tattooist informs us. "You two can console each other in the meantime." It's only when he's out of range that my laughter fades. Though I'm still smiling. That disgruntled expression on Andreas' face is too hilarious.

"What the fuck is so funny?" He relocates his chair beside mine, and that unnecessary pillow still sits atop his thighs, and all I want to do—other than finish with this agonising session—is hurl it towards the wall.

He makes the mistake off freeing it from his hold.

My hand darts between his arms and knocks over the pillow.

He sighs at the protrusion from beneath his shorts. "Troublesome lady," he mumbles.

His cock seems to be yearning for a release, which isn't a surprise since I had sucked it in the previous hours and left it at the edge. I bite my bottom lip, observing it strain the cotton material of his shorts.

"Oh, don't look at it like that. If you're anticipating a pleasant encounter with it tonight, I'd advise you to comfort those two prior to the work they'll be sweated into doing." He lounges in his stool, the giant bulge free and no longer hidden, his hands dangling to the sides.

"My tits aren't being sweated into doing anything tonight. In case you haven't been paying enough attention, they're unfit for playing with for another week."

An unreadable emotion flashes across his features, a dash of blankness that's replaced with a mocking pout.

"But I'm so, so hungry, baby." He traces his tip through the cotton, slowly, tauntingly, as he purrs, "And the only thing that'll sate me will be fucking you, even if I can't use your delicious tits. Because you're an entire menu. I can still indulge on your pussy, or your ass, or..." His finger continues circling his head, gaze dropping to my lips. "You have no idea how badly I want to choke your mouth with my cock. Maybe because it'll teach you how to behave. Maybe because it'll teach you not to give in to your bratty tendencies and deepthroat a popsicle in front of another man. I don't know, gorgeous. I don't know. I'm just as confused as you are."

His lust and humour have merged like a fighter's sword, rousing and charming, and have been wielded on me. A few sentences for a strike, then those ongoing circles as the jabs, thrusting into my chest and incapacitating my lungs so breathing is a chore and trying to remain calm is my burden.

Sensing my changed composure, he leaves me here with soaking panties and his implications echoing in my head. Hours before I'd taken that power, that dominance from him, and now he's reeled it back in. I've relinquished it—and am not complaining.

"You okay?" Ethan returns to his tool, tattoo gun in hand and prepared to complete the final piece of work.

I nod. "Of course. I'm fine."

⚘

My body is a forest of plant life. A close replica of Andreas'.

The tattoo springs from the stalks of the roses at my shoulders, giving rise to that same jumble of vines, thorns that project from winding stems, and dainty flowers blooming among the lavish tangle. It's all on my collarbone, my chest, reaching the sides and down halfway of my breasts. Loose stems dangle even further south from each one, hanging below that curve at the bottom, gorgeous accents to the jungle above them. It's the only difference between mine and his. His chest is complete; mine is near complete.

In the mirror, I peruse the plastic-wrapped tattoo, all of it permanent, a huge contrast to the colour of my skin. Like black on white, up and down, left then right. An unconcealable difference. Something I won't hide.

All I do when I slide into the bed is lay myself flat and subdue my disorderly feelings. Rein any thoughts of him, dispose the idea that I may have let those needles hit my skin because I wanted them to. Because I like being by his side, even if it means letting that inky substance progress on my skin, advance until it completes me.