Spider Man Tattoo Chest Novels & Stories

The guards on Marcus's payroll looked the other way. When Alex arrived at the designated trailer, he was surprised to see another man there. Spider was older, thin, with wiry arms covered in a intricate sleeve of dark ink. His eyes were sharp and observant, but he said little, merely nodding at Marcus before setting up his small, portable tattoo station on the sterile metal table. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and ink, a sharp, clean scent that did little to mask the underlying musk of sex and power that always clung to Marcus. "Strip and bend over my lap," Marcus commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Then, his gaze dropped to the spider lily tattoo on my ankle. Suddenly, he yanked open his own shirt collar. Over his left chest, directly above his heart, bloomed the exact same spider lily. The colour was blood-red. It was a mark he had gone over again and again for five years, carving it deeper into his flesh. "I'll cut him up and feed him to the dogs…" He cursed under his breath. "Doctor! Get a doctor up here now! "I only want female doctors!" He roared toward the door. His voice had a slight, unintentional quiver.

I watched as he left, leaving me covered in blood and sobbing. There was something on his neck. I try to hone in on it and I squint my closed eyes even harder as I try to make clarity of it. It was a tattoo. He has a tattoo of a spider on his left side behind his ear. It was red and black like the spiders that eat their mates.

Fucking hot. His body was perfectly toned. He had a really broad chest and shoulders, and a solid six-pack. I don’t know, maybe it was an eight-pack, but it looked incredible. And there was a spider tattoo on the upper part of his right chest, right below his collarbone. I didn’t know he had a tattoo, but it made him look so sexy. “Why? Why?” he said, running his hands through his wet hair, which only made him look hotter. I bit my lip hard as I stared at him.

– He declared, letting go of my wrist, passing his thumb over his mouth, my eyes fixed on that man with a broad, defined chest, with a pecs designed as if he had been sculpted. On his neck he had a tattoo of a dragon that released a blue-green flame from its mouth.

I sprang from my bed, adrenaline pumping as I prepared to confront the intruder. My stance quickly relaxed, however, and a frown crossed my face when I saw who it was—Hayes Hawthorne, standing in my room shirtless. My breath caught in my throat. Holy. Fucking. Hell. Every inch of his body was sculpted like a Greek god, with sharp lines and rigid definition. A large tattoo sprawled across his upper chest and onto his left shoulder, dark and bold, forming a series of interconnected shapes that were both intricate and slightly thorny.