Marked for Submission by Sheri Savill Page B

about them. She loved them so much she’d decided to finally get a full black and grey sleeve on her own arm. And who better to do the work than a hot young name in the tattoo business who just happened to operate in a shop right there in her city?
    Mark was a sought-after tattoo artist with his own shop. He was successful and smart enough to make a good go of a business. Janna had always thought it was odd that some people assumed that having tattoos meant “not that bright.” In her experience, that was so untrue. A stereotype, and a fucked up one at that. In fact, by all indications, Mark was something of a marketing genius. He stayed booked up months in advance and was in demand at tattoo conventions. He’d been profiled in dozens of art and tattoo magazines and did endorsements for tattoo aftercare products.
    Janna was excited, but a little nervous, as she drove to his shop for her appointment. She couldn’t wait to be in Mark’s presence and … lust after him up close.
    Jesus, Janna. You’re doing this. You’re like a stalker or something.
    She’d seen his ads in the pages of the local paper. They also ran interviews with him, complete with pictures of him working, painting, shaking hands with bigwigs. “Local Tat too Artist Raises Money For Dog Park,” “Tattoo Artist Donates Mural To Historic Downtown Beautification Efforts,” that kind of thing. The charity work was nice, sure, and said a lot about him, but she’d immediately been taken by his quirky-handsome good looks: a dazzling white smile, soft brown eyes framed by sexy eyebrows – could a man have sexy eyebrows ? Yeah, this one sure did — all set off by a tanned face, topped by crazy-casual mixmaster sun-streaked hair. Both his ears were pierced and he wore a small diamond stud nose ring. Nice.
    And then there was his body. Good God, what a body. He wore long fitted shorts – not those baggy rapper-dude ones that hid a man’s physique, thank God, when would that stupid fad be over so women could enjoy looking at men again? — and a snug black t-shirt that showed off a chiseled lean athletic frame. His toned legs and arms were not made by workouts in a gym, but from surfing, his other passion in life … besides marking skin with needle-injected ink.
    Her attraction to him instantly worried her, though: How the hell would she ever be able to stand being in this man’s tattoo chair for four or five hours with that face – that body – just inches from hers? She knew she’d be struggling to keep herself calm and pretend she wasn’t especially interested in him.
    What a ga me. What a stupid, stupid game.
    The appointment was for 8PM and Mark had said he‘d probably need at least four or five hours to do the first phase of the work. Obviously he intended to keep working on her after the shop closed for the night. The thought made her nervous, but in a good way.
    Oh right, Janna. Like the man is going to hit on you just because the shop is closed and you’re in there alone with him. Dream on, idiot. You’re also old enough to be his … oh fuck, just shut it and get real.
    The other three tattoo artists who worked for Mark had already gone home for the night – winter was a slow time of year, even for a popular shop. Once she entered the shop, she’d signed the release form – a bunch of the usual legalese amounting to a promise not to sue should something go horribly wrong. She skimmed it, knowing it would only make her more scared if she read the tiny print. Better to stay in denial, she thought, as Mark ushered her to his work station area, trying to put her at ease by making small talk as they walked.
    The centerpiece of his work area was a large black-leather padded chaise — long and rectangular, and motorized to recline/lift at the head and foot. It was obviously a good quality piece, with thick leather padding on the top and sides. She was surprised at how nice it was. Then again, the shop had a great reputation and made money,