Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) by L.E Joyce Page B

sweetheart,” she warned.
    “Sorry, you didn’t tell me your name. Usually when a woman offers me money, I at least know her name.”
    “My name is Bridget,” she said, “and I’ll pay three times your normal rate if you do this tattoo for me right now.”
    Walsh never sweated over a customer walking out of his shop before. This one–he didn’t want to let her go. He could tell that this girl wasn’t messing around. She could walk away and find an artist to do it for her at this time of night, no problem. He thought of Bob Grim and how he probably went straight to his tattoo shop across town instead of heading home to Gina. Walsh didn’t want to give Grim the chance to snake yet another woman away. He quickly surveyed his right hand, deciding the fifth of Jack would have to wait a little while longer.
    “All right, Bridget,” he said. “Let’s talk more inside.”
    As Bridget cross the threshold of the shop, Walsh could see a sudden moment of anxiety pass over her.
    “You’re not right-handed are you?” she asked, as if suddenly worried that her decision to buy off a tattoo artist in the middle of the night was the worst thing she had done in her life.
    “No,” he said.
    “Good.”
    Her stilettos clicked along the wooden floorboards as she followed him inside.
    “My name’s Walsh,” he said turning on a few lights. “Walsh Jackson. Have a seat on the couch and we’ll go over the paperwork before we get started.”
    “Paperwork?” she asked.
    Walsh could hear the tension in her voice. She did not sit down.
    “Yes. Paperwork. Consent forms, ID check, etcetera.”
    “I don’t have any ID on me,” she said.
    Walsh could tell she was lying. The way she carried herself, like a deer about to flee, told him that she would dart if he pressed further.
    “I’d prefer to keep this below ground,” she said. “Isn’t that worth the triple price?”
    Walsh eyed her. “Fine. But you need to at least sign the consent. I don’t want you waking up tomorrow with buyer’s remorse and sue me.”
    “It’s a deal,” she said. “Turn around.”
    Walsh turned, and Bridget used his back to quickly fill out the form. He inhaled her scent–lavender and rosemary with a hint of Chanel, his favorite. Walsh felt the crotch of his jeans stretch against him.
    “Where do I change?” she asked.
    Walsh pointed to the hallway leading to the back of the shop. “Back there, second door on the right. Take everything off and put on the robe.”
    “Everything?” she asked. “I just want my back done.”
    “If you want your pretty blue skirt ruined, then leave it on.”
    Walsh tracked Bridget as she walked to the changing room, hips swaying with authority. “Damn,” he whispered, as his thoughts turned to what she was wearing underneath that business chic suit of hers.

Two
    Bridget emerged from the dressing room more confused than when she happened upon INK in the middle of the night. Why was she here? What had driven her to leave the FBI field office at midnight and roam Richmond Heights, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Miami, alone? She didn’t even have her badge and gun on her, and that wasn’t like her. Yet something told her that she could trust Walsh; she didn’t need to run his name through the bureau’s database to know that. He seemed removed, yet had a strange sweetness about him. And boy did she like the way he looked: six feet tall, muscles that went on and on, and ruby red hair–her favorite. She always had a soft spot for the gingers. He was covered in tattoos, the exact opposite of her type, but had a kindness to him and an unsettledness she could see in his eyes.
    “Where do you want me?” she asked.
    Walsh pointed to the chair. Bridget noticed how he took her in, scanning the length of her with his eyes, and she felt warmness spread between her legs. She liked the way he looked at her.
    “Here,” he said, pointing to what looked like belonged in a dentist’s office.
    Bridget sat