Shoreditch Sizzle

The consultation was supposed to be routine.

Then Selam walked in.

Thick. Gorgeous. Eritrean curves that made Chiamaka's artist eye weep with appreciation.

"I want something here," Selam said, gesturing from her hip to her ribs. "Climbing roses. Very detailed."

"That's an intimate area. Multiple sessions."

"I know." Those dark eyes held challenge. "Is that a problem?"

It was going to be several problems.

First session: the outline.

Selam stripped to nothing, unembarrassed. Her thick body was a canvas—soft belly, wide hips, breasts heavy and natural.

Chiamaka's hands shook.

"Nervous?" Selam asked.

"Professional focus."

"Mmm. Focus harder then."

The needle traced her hip. Selam made sounds—little gasps that could have been pain but sounded like something else.

"Still good?" Chiamaka asked.

"Very good. Don't stop."

Chiamaka worked for three hours, trying not to notice how Selam's skin flushed, how her breathing deepened, how her nipples hardened in the cool studio air.

Professionalism. She was a professional.

Third session: the shading.

Working higher now, along her ribs. Chiamaka's face was inches from Selam's breast.

"You can touch," Selam whispered.

"I am touching. With the needle."

"You know what I mean."

Chiamaka looked up. Selam's eyes were dark with want.

"This is crossing a line."

"I know. Cross it with me."

The tattoo gun fell silent.

Chiamaka kissed her instead—tasted the salt of her skin, felt those thick curves press against her.

"God, I've wanted this," Selam admitted. "Every session. Counting down to this moment."

"Me too."

They made love in the studio, careful of the healing ink but careless about everything else.

The tattoo took six sessions to complete.

What grew between them took longer.

"You've ruined me for other artists," Selam said.

"You've ruined me for other clients."

The roses climbed her body, permanent art on permanent beauty.

And Chiamaka signed her masterpiece with a kiss.

Shoreditch had never seen such dedication to the craft.