“Okay, baby, this part might not feel too good,” but I could never miss the slow drag of his gun against bone. I whimpered, working hard to keep my body still. “Shit,” I panted. “Oooh…” My nails dug into my forearms, willing myself not to writhe. I was the biggest wimp alive when it came to pain. I had no tolerance for it. My first tattoo had been the size of a dime on my inner wrist, and I’d nearly passed out. I’d sucked it up, though, putting on a mask of bliss for my stranger of an artist and the guy who’d come with me. If I hadn’t met and come to trust Joaquin, I would’ve kept hiding my
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