Herface.
The curve of her jaw. The slope of her neck. The exact shape of her lips. The way her eyes look when they're glazed with fear and arousal. Every piece of ink on my body is her—bound, used, claimed, worshipped through violence and control.
"What the..." Her voice is barely a whisper. She's not fighting anymore. Not even breathing properly. Just staring at the artwork covering my chest, my arms, my ribs. Her fingers trace one image involuntarily—a woman's throat caught in a man's grip, her back arched, her mouth open in what could be pleasure or pain. "What the hell is this?"
"You," I say simply.
Her eyes snap up to mine, wild and disbelieving. "But these—these are old. This ink is... some of this has to be years old."
I don't deny it. "Yes."
She's shaking her head now, trying to process. Her gaze drops back to my body, cataloging each piece. A woman on her knees, hands bound, looking up with submission written across her features. A woman bent over a bondage table, ass in the air, red marks blooming across her skin. A woman hanging from suspension cuffs, toes barely touching the ground.
All her. Every single one.
"You've had me tattooed on your body," she breathes, her voice cracking on the last word. "For years. Before you ever spoke to me. Before the auction. Before?—"
"Before I even knew your real name," I confirm. "Before I even knew your stories. Your fantasies. Your desires. It was you, in my dreams, for years. And now… you're here."
Her hands are trembling against my chest now, her fingers still tracing the images as if she can't quite believe they're real. "This is insane. This is—you're obsessed."
"Yes." I let the word hang in the cold air between us, let it sink into her bones like the ink has sunk into mine. I wait until her gaze drags up from the tattooed image of her own bound body to meet my eyes. When she does, I hold her there with nothing but the weight of my stare. "I'm obsessed. More than obsessed." I pause deliberately, letting each word land with the full force of its meaning. "I'm going to keep you."
Her breath catches audibly. "Going to... going to keep me?" The question comes out strangled, disbelieving. "Like—like kidnap me?"
"Now, now," I murmur, my tone deceptively gentle, the kind of soothing voice you'd use to calm a frightened animal. "Let's not be dramatic. I don't need to kidnap you." I let my thumb brush slowly across her hipbone, feeling the way she shivers beneath the touch. "You came here of your own free will. Signed the contract. Walked into my home with your eyes wide open."
"I was literally blindfolded!" Her voice cracks, rises in pitch. "And I want to leave, too!"
"You can leave," I say evenly, reasonably. My fingers still moving in those maddening, lazy circles against her skin. "When I'm done with you."
Her whole body goes rigid. "What if I want to leave right now?"
I tilt my head slightly, studying her with the kind of patience I've perfected over years of negotiations. "We've already been through this."
"I do!" The words explode out of her, sudden and fierce, and she tries to pull away from my touch. "I want to leave?—"
Before the word can fully form on her lips, I've moved. My hand slides from her hip to wrap around her waist, pulling her forward with enough force that she stumbles into me. In the same fluid motion, my other hand moves between her thighs, fingers finding her entrance and sliding up inside her in one smooth, deliberate thrust.
Two fingers curve upward immediately, pressing hard against that sensitive spot I've already memorized, dragging through the slick evidence of her arousal.
The effect is instantaneous. Her entire body seizes, that fierce defiance evaporating like steam. Her legs buckle, knees going weak, and she would collapse if I weren't holding her up.
Her fingers scramble for purchase against my tattooed chest, nails digging in as her body twists and writhes against the invasion. She's panting now, harsh desperate gasps as her pussy clenches rhythmically around my fingers, as her hips rock forward involuntarily seeking more contact even as her mind screams that she should be pulling away.
"There she is," I murmur against her ear, walking her backward step by step, my fingers never stopping their relentless motion inside her. "There's my good little slut."
She's coming apart completely now, helpless little whimpers spilling from her throat as I manipulate her body with practiced precision. When her back bumps against the white paper of the exam table she jerks in surprise, but I don't give her time to react. I just press her harder against it, my fingers curling deeper, my thumb finding her clit and circling with just enough pressure to make her cry out.
Her walls clench around me again, fluttering and grasping as another wave of pleasure crashes through her. She's soaking wet, my fingers sliding easily through her arousal, and the obscene sound of it fills the room.
When her trembling finally starts to subside, when she's nothing but a gasping, shaking mess supported entirely by my arm around her waist and my hand between her legs, I smile. Slow and satisfied.
"See?" I say softly, letting that smile bleed into my voice. "Such a good girl." I flex my fingers inside her once more, making her whimper. "We're right back where we started."
She barely manages to look over her shoulder at the exam table. Her head is heavy, her eyes are heavy, her feet probably feel like concrete.
I release her wrists and she doesn't run. Instead, her hands come up to grip my shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Her whole body is trembling, caught between terror and desire, between what she thinks she should feel and what she actually feels.
