Silence lingers as I stand there in nothing but a corseted black-satin bustier and thong. I feel the weight of his gaze through the blindfold, but he says nothing. Every second feels like a punishment, and I hate that I crave his approval. The worst part is that he knows it. This must be the reason for the blindfold—so he can deprive me of any pleasure I might witness on his face.
When the warmth of his hand finally settles against my hip, a swell of relief rises in my throat. He drags his thumb along the band of my thong, sliding beneath it and snapping it against my skin.
“Look at you,” he hums. “The trinket every man in Seattle wants. And here you are…mine. Why is that,bella?”
He’s baiting me.
Another game.
Another manipulation.
“Because you can?” I answer honestly.
“And?” His hand slips beneath the fabric of my thong, fingers gliding through my arousal.
A breath hisses through my teeth as I arch back into him and repeat what he told me in my bedroom. “And you’re the only one who can give this to me.”
The sound that rumbles from his chest is dark as sin and dripping with pleasure. “Clever girl.”
His head dips, and he drags his teeth over the delicate skin of my neck like he wants to bite me. He sucks and licks and tastes me there, driving me to the point of madness. It shouldn’t feel so good to have the devil at your throat. And I definitely shouldn’t be moaning when his teeth finally sink into me.
He soothes the sting with the softness of his lips, and my nervous system short-circuits. I lose myself to his control and the friction of his fingers between my thighs. In a matter of moments, I’m on the verge of coming undone.
“Come for me,” he murmurs. “I want you so wet when I fuck you, you’ll take every inch of my cock.”
A roaring flame licks down my spine and crashes deep inside me, exploding into an orgasm that steals my breath. I collapse into his arms as wave after endless wave rolls through me, dissolving every ounce of tension in my body. Warmth spreads through my veins, liquid pleasure saturating my blood as I bathe in the afterglow.
“Brava ragazza.” Angelo’s heated praise soaks into me like golden sunlight.
He holds me upright, waiting for my racing heart to calm before he lowers me onto my knees. Soft velvet brushes against my skin, and I know it must be the pillow that was resting on the throne. A small comfort for the tattoo ceremony.
My mind is blissfully empty as he settles into the seat behind me. A few moments pass as he snaps on some gloves and prepares his tools. Once he’s ready, he brushes my hair aside, cleans my skin, and presses the stencil to the nape of my neck. In keeping with tradition, Society wives are marked with their husband’s family crest on the night of their wedding. The Vitale crest is a shield with a snake curling up each side, a crown perched at the top, and two crossed swords with a ‘V’ carved into each hilt.
Each mark holds significance for the Vitale family, and as a whole, it will serve as both a symbol of power and ownership. Every man in The Society will recognize that I belong to Angelo Vitale. It’s a language of its own in our world. A way of recognizing which woman belongs to whom. And therefore, it serves as a warning. Touch a marked woman, and you’d better mark your own days because they will surely be numbered.
I’d like to believe that I carry myself with strength, and in my world, I’ve already done the extraordinary. I’ve built a successful business and proven that I can survive on my own. So it hasn’t escaped me that this is an archaic, patriarchal ritual. But if I’m honest, there’s also something to be said for wearing his mark on my skin. It appeals to my baser desires. The ones that want him to boss me around, fuck me like I’m his property, and tell the whole world that I’mhis.
There’s also a comfort, as temporary as it may be, to know that I’m safe now. My father can no longer make decisions on my behalf. I can’t be forced to wed another man I didn’t choose. And most importantly, I get a taste of the fantasy I always wanted…at least for a little while.
A mechanical hum fills the air as Angelo turns on the machine, and the needle makes contact with my skin. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt. He’s efficient, inking each line as if he’s been doing this his whole life. But then, it doesn’t surprise me. Angelo has always been good at everything he does.
My thoughts drift as the edges of the world soften around me. I feel like I’m floating, suspended on a slow tide in a vast blue sea. I’m weightless, pulled deeper into a state of bliss with every vibration against my skin. I could live right here beneath the stars, his warmth pressing against my back, his scent wrapping around me like a cocoon.
Unfortunately, it ends far too quickly when he switches off the machine. As he applies ointment and wraps the area, I feel astrange longing to return to that place where nothing else exists outside of this moment. Because I know what happens when this bubble bursts.
I wonder if he thinks that, too. We may have found a temporary shelter, but we haven’t outrun the storm.
I pivot and turn to face him. He doesn’t speak, but I can hear him sit back against the throne, and his gaze seems to burn through me, even with the blindfold.
“Can I take this off now?” I brush my fingers over the material covering my eyes.
“No.” His warm palm traces the curve of my face.
I close my eyes and lean into that touch, starved by years of neglect without it. I want to please him. I want him to burn with the same ache he’s branded into me.
I turn my face and kiss his palm, breathing his name as I do. The rough exhalation I receive in return is all the encouragement I need to push the boundaries.
I shift, legs bumping against his shoes as I scoot closer, reaching out to touch him. My palms settle on his calves, gliding over the curves of muscle as they wander upward to his hard thighs. They’re solid and warm, cloaked in the finest Italian wool.
