Take what I give you.
I think I’ve finally found how far you’ll drip.
The needle scraped across bone and I gasped, thighs rubbing together helplessly. The artist gently stilled me with one hand, muttering something soft and patient that I barely registered.
I wasn’t thinking about the tattoos anymore.
I was thinking about Cal’s voice in my ear when he made me come in his lap at dinner. I was thinking about the way he’d pinned me on the bed with the spreader bar and gruntedthat’s it, baby, take itas I sobbed into the mattress.
I felt like I was taking it now.
The needle paused. There was a cold swipe of something on my hip.
“You okay?” the artist asked.
I blinked and swallowed.
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice raspy and distant.
I didn’t tell him I was thinking about how my husband was going to kiss this ink with his tongue. That I’d beg him to trace every letter until I cried. That I’d wear this pain like a trophy.
When I glanced up, Cal’s eyes were locked on my thighs, right where my white lace thong disappeared into the shadow at the apex. It did nothing to hide the evidence of what he’d already done to me.
His jaw was set, his cock thick behind the zipper of his pants, and his chest rose slow and hard like he was breathing me in.
Oh. Mon. Dieu.
Our eyes met.
I let my knees fall open just slightly. Just enough for him to see the mess he’d made of me. His cum still leaked through the lace, my arousal seeping down my thighs, raw from need and ruin. Maybe I should’ve cared that maybe the tattoo artist would know, but all I cared about right now was baring myself to my husband. Showing him his eternal reward for choosing me.
His mouth twitched. I smiled back—ruined and wet and wrecked for him in the most delicious way.
Then the needle buzzed again.
And I thought… good girlstakepain.But only the ones who belong to someone get off on it.
And I fucking belonged to him.
Then I remember watching Cal sit for his turn.
The man who loved me. The man who ran to me. The man who crawled to me. The man who rose to the occasion, even when it shattered him. The man who married me. And now—the man who inked a piece of me onto his body.Permanently.
I remember settling into a corner across from him, hips still burning from the tattoos I’d just taken. My skin sizzled under the new ink along my wrist, but it wasn’t the sting that held me still.
It was my husband, Callum Fraser. The king of Formula 1. The man the motorsport world bowed to.
The manIbowed to.
And right then, him shirtless on his back, arm outstretched, jaw locked against the pain, breathing heavy as the needle traced something into his ribs.
For me.
I didn’t make a sound. Didn’t say a word. I just sat there, dress wrinkled, thighs still sticky, ring catching the light as I watched the man I loved offer himself up like a prayer.
He didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. I felt the weight of it all—the power, the need, the worship that dripped from every glance he’d given me that night.
And I remember the way I smiled, because I hadn’t dethroned him. I’d stepped onto the throne beside him. Reminded the world that behind every great man was a woman who didn’t follow—she reigned. She ruled. She destroyed softly and rebuilt from the ashes. She took his crown in one hand and his cock in the other and asked him to kneel, not because he had to, but because hewantedto.
