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.

Unknown number.

The text read: Come up here and let me watch you up close.

The raw command in those seven words nearly buckled my knees. I stared at the screen, breath shallow, then typed back with trembling fingers.

Now?

His reply was immediate. Door’s unlocked. Top of the stairs. Don’t make me wait, Lena.

He knew my name. Of course he did.

I buttoned my blouse with shaking hands, left the rest of the lights on, and climbed the narrow staircase that connected our two worlds. The door at the top was indeed unlocked. I stepped into his studio and the scent of antiseptic, ink, and warm male skin wrapped around me.

Jax leaned against a tall steel worktable, arms crossed, watching me like a predator who’d finally cornered prey. The studio was bright, every bulb blazing. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated two walls, giving a perfect view of the street below. People moved along the sidewalk in a steady current. Anyone who glanced up would see everything.

“Strip,” he said, voice low and rough. “Slowly. I’ve waited long enough.”

I didn’t hesitate. My fingers found the buttons again. The silk whispered down my arms and pooled at my feet. I unzipped my skirt and let it slide over my hips, stepping out of it. My stockings and heels stayed on because he hadn’t told me to remove them. When I hooked my thumbs into the tiny black lace thong, he shook his head.

“Leave it. For now.”

Naked except for stockings, heels, and a scrap of lace, I stood in the center of his brightly lit studio. My nipples were aching points. My pussy throbbed visibly against the damp fabric.

Jax stayed fully dressed. The contrast made me feel deliciously exposed. He circled me once, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin, every soft curve.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “But I want the whole fucking street to see what a needy little exhibitionist you are. Go to the window.”

My legs felt liquid as I walked to the massive pane of glass. The street was only twenty feet below. A couple paused at the crosswalk directly beneath us. I pressed my breasts against the cool surface. The shock of cold made me gasp. My nipples tightened even further, flattened against the glass like obscene pink targets.

Jax came up behind me. One large, inked hand slid around my hip and dipped between my thighs. He rubbed the lace against my swollen clit until I whimpered.

“Tell me you want them to see,” he growled against my ear.

“I want them to see,” I breathed. “I want them to watch you play with me.”

He rewarded me by sliding two thick fingers under the edge of my thong and pushing them deep inside my soaked pussy. I moaned loud enough that I was sure the couple below must have heard. His fingers curled, stroking that perfect spot while his thumb worked my clit in tight circles. My hips rocked shamelessly against his hand, tits still smashed to the window, breath fogging the glass in rhythmic bursts.

“Look at them,” he ordered. “Look at all those people who have no idea you’re up here getting finger-fucked like a whore.”

The dirty words sent me spiraling. My orgasm crashed over me without warning. I cried out, thighs clamping around his wrist as I came hard, juices flooding his hand and dripping down my inner thighs. He didn’t stop until I was shaking and whimpering against the glass.

Only then did he pull his fingers free, bringing them to my lips. I sucked them clean, tasting myself, staring into his dark eyes.

He spun me around, walked me backward until my ass hit the edge of his hydraulic tattoo chair. With one powerful movement he lifted me onto it, then flipped me over so I was bent across the leather seat, knees spread wide on the footrests, ass high in the air and facing the window.

I heard his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then the blunt, scorching head of his cock nudged against my entrance, pushing the soaked lace aside.

“Last chance to close the blinds, Lena.”

I looked over my shoulder at him, eyes glassy with lust. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He drove into me in one brutal thrust.

The stretch was exquisite. He was thick, long, and perfectly hard. I screamed in pure pleasure as he bottomed out, balls pressed tight to my clit. He gave me no time to adjust. He fucked me hard, deep, relentless strokes that rocked the heavy chair. Each slam of his hips sent my tits swinging. My moans echoed off the studio walls and probably carried straight down to the street. I didn’t care. I wanted them to hear. I wanted them to look up and see my face contorted in ecstasy while this tattooed god railed me in full view.

“Harder,” I begged. “Let them see how much I need your cock.”

Jax snarled, fisted my hair, and gave me exactly what I asked for. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. My second orgasm built fast and vicious. When it hit, my vision whited out. I came with a guttural cry, pussy clamping down on his pistoning cock like a vice.

He pulled out suddenly, flipped me onto my back, and shoved my legs wide apart. My heels pointed toward the ceiling, knees splayed obscenely toward the glass. Anyone on the street who bothered to look up would have a perfect view of my dripping, well-fucked pussy stretched around his cock as he slammed back inside me.

This angle let him go even deeper. I could feel him in my throat. My hands flew to my clit, rubbing frantically while he pounded me. His eyes were locked on the place where we joined, watching his thick shaft disappear into my pink folds again and again.

“Going to paint those pretty tits,” he growled. “Then you’re going to come so loud the whole goddamn block knows who you belong to.”

I was already there. The pressure coiled tighter, tighter, until I shattered. My back arched off the chair, a raw, keening scream tearing from my throat as my orgasm ripped through me like lightning. My pussy gushed around him, soaking the leather beneath us.

Jax roared, pulled out at the last second, and fisted his glistening cock. Thick, heavy ropes of cum erupted across my breasts and belly in hot pulses. I kept rubbing my clit through the aftershocks, smearing his spend across my nipples as I trembled and moaned for the entire street to witness.

For a long moment the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant murmur of traffic below.

I was still trembling, back pressed to the window, his cum cooling on my skin, when Jax stepped between my spread thighs again. He dragged two fingers through the mess on my chest and slowly, deliberately, smeared it across my nipples like war paint. Then he leaned down and kissed me, deep and possessive, tongue stroking mine until I melted all over again.

When he finally pulled back, that wicked smirk had returned to his mouth.

“Shop’s closed tomorrow, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “I’ve got a very large piece to start on your inner thigh. Right here in this chair. In front of the window. Whole street’s gonna watch me mark you as mine while you try not to come all over my needle.”

I stared at him, chest still heaving, cum drying on my breasts, thighs slick with our combined release.

And then I started laughing, bright, helpless, post-orgasm giggles that shook my whole body.

“Jesus Christ, Jax,” I gasped between laughs. “You tattoo my thigh tomorrow and I’m definitely going to need a new sign out front. Something tasteful. Maybe ‘Closed for Filthy Public Art.’”