Stella has no idea how famous she is.
No idea that celebrities worldwide come to her little Jackson Hole tattoo parlor because of it.
Not that she wouldn't be successful without that fame, she would. She's good. But it never hurts to have the global rich andpowerful dying to book an appointment in your shop so they can see you in person after watching you take a royal cock in the pussy, in the ass, and down the throat at the same time.
The point is, to Stella, Ryan had a vibe.
Which made me wonder, what was the vibe she got off of me?
I didn't ask, she had no trouble recalling the work Posie did for me. When I walk into a tattoo shop and take off my shirt,everyonenotices. That's why I don't let any artist do more than one.
Our boy, Ryan, though? He either didn't think that one through—unlikely. Or he enjoys the attention. Ding, ding, ding.
Birds, though. I can see why he took the risk. It feels safe.
But there are two kinds of people who cover their body in skin art.
The randos and the collectors.
Randos are just that.I think I'll get a tattoo today. Maybe a Tasmanian Devil?
But collectors have a theme.I'm inking up my body with symbols that represent ME.
So by default, Ryan was a collector.
Which means the artist takes note.
What do the birds mean to Ryan?
Perhaps I'll ask before I kill him.
Because Iamgoing to kill him.
But it wasn't the tattoos, or Stella's claim that made me come to this conclusion. It was Scarletta.
Of course, it was Scarletta. I can't be certain that what she told me last night was the truth.He pushed his finger into my mouth. Just shoved it in like I was a whore. And I came. Right there. Fully clothed. Just from his finger. He spread me wide open. Bound. Helpless. Exactly the way I like it. And then he fucked me so hard I felt it for hours afterward. He came all overme. Marked me. Told me to come back tomorrow morning at five AM for round two.
My cock is throbbing. This is what she does to me. The absolute way Scarletta Mae Desmond hijacks my attention should be infuriating.
But it's not.
It just makes me want her more.
Makes me want to possess her.
Makes me want to lock her in a room where only I exist. Where my voice is the only sound. My hands the only touch. My approval the only currency that matters.
I want to crawl inside her skull and live there. Set up permanent residence in the space between her thoughts and her shame. I want to know every fantasy before she finishes thinking it. Every fear before it fully forms.
I want her so completely that the concept of "Scarletta without Caleb" becomes linguistically impossible. A grammatical error. A failure of basic logic.
This is what normal men don't understand.
They think possession means ownership. Legal titles. Marriage certificates. Joint bank accounts.
Idiots.
Possession means she can't come without thinking of me. Can't write a sentence without wondering if I'll read it. Can't look at herself in the mirror without seeing what I see.
