Tattooed Artist's Bookshop Spread

I never meant for it to become an obsession, but the moment Jax moved into the loft above my bookshop, something inside me cracked open and refused to close again.

My name is Lena. I’m twenty-eight, curvy in all the places that make vintage dresses strain at the seams, and I own The Gilded Page, a narrow, two-story bookstore tucked between a coffee roaster and a wine bar on a busy downtown street. I’ve always had a secret exhibitionist streak, the kind that makes my pulse race when I imagine eyes on me while I’m vulnerable. I just never had the right pair of eyes until his.

Jax is thirty-two, a walking canvas of ink and muscle. Black and grey tattoos crawl up both arms, disappear under the collar of his worn black tees, and reappear at his wrists like living shadows. His jaw is sharp, his dark hair perpetually messy, and his eyes are the color of storm clouds right before lightning. He rented the empty loft to use as a private tattoo studio, working by appointment only, which meant most nights it was just him and those enormous, uncovered windows that looked straight down into my reading nook.

The first week he was there I told myself it was coincidence that I started wearing lower-cut blouses. By the second week I was choosing skirts that barely covered the tops of my thigh-high stockings. I’d catch myself bending over the display tables longer than necessary, pretending to straighten books while the hem rode up. Every time I felt the phantom weight of his gaze from above, heat pooled low in my belly.

He never came down to the shop. He didn’t need to. The architecture did the work for us. My reading area had a high, open ceiling with a mezzanine feel; his studio sat directly over it. At night, when I stayed late to close up, the lights in his space would click on like a stage cue. I started leaving my own lights brighter than usual.

One Thursday, after the last customer left and the street outside was still thick with foot traffic, I locked the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and let myself feel bold. I stood behind the oak counter, heart hammering, and slowly unbuttoned my emerald silk blouse. The cool air kissed my skin as the fabric parted. I wore nothing underneath. My breasts spilled free, nipples already tight. I cupped one, rolling the peak between my fingers, and lifted my eyes to the window above.

Jax was standing there.

He wore a black tank that showed the full sleeves of ink winding over his shoulders. His arms were folded, but his stare was anything but casual. Our eyes locked. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. I pinched my nipple harder and let my head fall back on a silent moan. When I looked again he had one hand pressed to the front of his jeans, stroking the thick outline of his cock with lazy confidence.

I nearly came on the spot.

The next three nights followed the same delicious pattern. I’d strip behind the counter, touching myself while he watched from above. He never looked away. Sometimes he’d unzip, pulling out that heavy, veined length and stroking it openly for me. The sight of his tattooed fist working his cock made my thighs slick. We never spoke. The tension stretched tighter every single evening until I thought I might snap.

Then, last Friday, my phone buzzed on the counter while I stood there topless, two fingers buried inside myself.