Texting The Tattooist Read Online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)

Pro fighter turned tattoo artist and now, texting buddy. Killian Blaze is as hot as his name and a complete stranger. So why is he texting me back?

I want a tattoo to honor the only man who ever loved me, my dad. I’m shy, almost a recluse. I find it difficult to leave the house let alone talk to strangers so how can I communicate my desire for a tattoo?
At first, I think Killian won’t help me. He’s a famous tattoo artist, surely he won’t have time, but we start texting and discussing designs. We start texting a lot.
Killian is older, experienced, and we have only ever communicated through text. How can I feel such a connection with a stranger?
I’m curvy, and very shy, nothing like the ring girls from his previous life as a fighter. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never even kissed anybody.
Can I trust this stranger who sends me hot and steamy texts? Will he lift me up and help me come out of my shell or leave me all alone to lock myself away?

* Texting the Tattooist is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



I finish the last set of sit-ups, my abs straining and sweat soaking the matted floor of my home gym.

There’s this fire in me, burning with each repetition.

Maybe it’s age.

My forty-first birthday was a few days ago, and people keep mentioning – sometimes in a friendly way, sometimes with a tinge of jealousy – that my body will begin slowing down soon. But I haven’t felt it, only more swelling rage inside of me, the feeling that’s never left me ever since I first stepped into a boxing gym.

My coach used to say, there’s a devil in you, and we need to harness it.

Walking through my penthouse apartment, I find Speeder lying on the couch, his greyhound body stretched out, his orange fur sticking out here and there from where he’s been rolling over.

He rises as I enter, walking gracefully over to me.

“How are you doing, boy?”

I stroke the top of his head, telling myself Speeder’s the only companion I’ll ever need. But ever since my birthday, I’ve been thinking about her.

Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, I look down at the city. A shock strikes me every single time I take in this view.

It seems so recently that I was on the far side of the city, the grimy part of town, with dreams of boxing, success, and money, escaping the drudgery that surrounded me. There’s a poison to being a poor boy surrounded by poor grownups with no end in sight.

It can drain the hope out of a person.

But I kept on, and now here I am… with nobody to share it with.

Speeder makes a soft grumbling noise, tilting his head up at me.

Ever since I found the scrappy rust-colored boy in the alleyway behind my tattoo studio three years ago, he’s been able to read my moods.

He’s even more perceptive when he’s been heavily exercised, as he has today with countless laps in a large field on the city’s outskirts.

I know what he’s saying.

I could find a woman if I wanted.

Last week, one of my tattooing clients offered herself to me. Once I was done tatting the butterfly on her wrist, she turned her hand over, grabbing my arm.

She was, on some level, attractive. Not that I found her attractive, but I could see why other men would.

She was the sort of woman advertising executives put on billboards, with her styled hair, seemingly perfect features, and gym-honed body.

But she left me cold.

I yanked my arm away.

She pretended not to be offended.

“You’ve done such a good job, Killian. Oh, I love that name. Killian. I could say it a thousand times. Is there any way I can repay you?”

I told her bluntly, “The cash is fine with me. Thanks for choosing my studio.”

She left with a pout, looking at me over her shoulder with an almost hurt look in her eyes. It was like she couldn’t understand how anybody could tell her no.

I’m sure not many men have.

But the woman I want….

Laughing gruffly, I open the glass door and walk onto the balcony. It’s cold out here, the winter wind whipping against my bare chest, instantly cooling my sweat. I’m surprised it doesn’t freeze and become as frosty as the rest of me.

The woman I want.

I think that as though there’s a specific idea of a partner I’m chasing.

As though I could type in her specifics into some machine and produce her in the shape I long for. But she’s hazy in my mind, or maybe she doesn’t exist.

It could be a case that I’m so broken no woman would appeal to me or be able to fix me.

Speeder whines, and I turn to find him sitting in the doorway.

“Too cold for you?” I ask.

He whines again.

I switch on the fire in the grill. It flickers to life, bathing the stone tiles of the balcony in warm orange light. Speeder approaches, the light mixing with the rustiness of his fur, and curls up on his blanket.

“Just me and you, eh, boy?”

Leaning down, I scratch him behind the ear.

Then my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I’ve always got it on me. It’s probably the poor kid in me, secretly thinking somebody will somehow take all of this away – the apartment, wealth, and success.

The career success, at least.

On my website, my cell number and my email are listed. So I never know when a new client will contact me. This could be a regular client call, a high roller, a celebrity, or a sports personality – somebody who wants to splash some real cash.

I read the text.

Good evening, Mr. Blaze.

I smirk at the formality of it.

My name is Mia Nelson. Unfortunately, my father passed away almost a year ago, and I’m considering getting a tattoo in his honor. Looking online, I see you’ve got countless positive reviews, and I also see you offer a service where you help the client design their tattoo. I’m very interested in this.