"Can be," the tattoo artist said. "Can be a tribal thing, too."

That sounded better to Cait. "Yeah," she mumbled. "That's it." She didn't want to tell him about Madonna. It was still too fresh in her mind.

The artist got up, stretching his lean but muscular arms, which were showcased by the black sleeveless shirt he wore. They were bare of any ink, but he had a band around his throat, and it emphasized his haunted eyes and chiseled features.

"You're going to feel a little prick," he said behind her.

Wouldn't be the first time, Cait thought to herself, but chose to keep her thoughts private.

The pain was more than a prick. It penetrated her, the needle thrusting into her delicate skin to fill her with its ink, and for a moment she feared that he had hit a nerve and she was going to be paralyzed from the waist down. Just as she was about to start panicking, however, the pain was faded, to be replaced by a kind of delicious sense of completion, as though something she had been missing all her life had finally been found. She felt like she could feel some sort of connection with the artist. Some sort of shared intimacy.

....to be continued...