All I am wearing is one of his old long shirts with nothing but panties on underneath. He pulls my shirt off and studies my body, the already fading hickeys from days ago, the smooth skin waiting to be claimed again.
When he has had his visual fill, he leans down and bites my throat. Hard enough to leave a mark and hard enough to make me squeal out in pain and pleasure.
"This is where my hand belongs," he says, his thumb brushing over the mark. "Right here. Claiming you, owning you."
I’m breathing so hard, I can barely speak. He moves his mouth lower, nibbling on my collarbone, my breast, leaving marks that mirror the drawing. His hand on my throat. His mouth on my skin. Claiming every part of me.
"This is what we are," he says between bites. "Violence and intimacy. Darkness and love."
"Yeah."
"Nobody will ever see the real us. It’s only for us."
"Our secret."
He pulls back to admire his work, hickeys blooming across my throat, my chest, my stomach. Visible marks of ownership.
"Perfect," he murmurs. Then he's inside me, claiming me completely.
The sex is intense, possessive and basic worshipping. He fucks me like he's trying to merge our bodies into one, like he's trying to make sure I never forget who I belong to.
"You're mine," he growls. "This work is mine. All of it is ours alone."
"Yeah."
"Say it."
"I'm yours. The work is yours. All of it belongs to us."
"Good girl."
When we cum, it's together with a shared release that feels like a prayer, a binding, a permanent mark.
"What are you going to call it?" he asks. "The drawing."
I’ve been mulling this over for a while, and only one title keeps popping up in my mind.
"Toxic Devotion."
He stares at me before belting out a loud laugh, a dark, satisfied sound that I’ve never heard from him before. It makes my heart swell.
"Genius idea," he says. "That's exactly what we are."
"Toxic fuck ups."
"Or you could say toxic and devoted and completely bound together."
"Softie."
He kisses my forehead. "Now you know that’s not true. But seriously, as soon as you finish the portfolio, then we can submit. But keepToxic Devotionto ourselves for now, it’s too special to part with yet."
"Agreed."
A week later and I now have twenty-six pieces. That’s more than enough for a strong portfolio. Fifteen crime scene photographs, eight drawings of strangers suffering, broken moments captured in graphite and shadow.
Two environmental decay studies of abandoned buildings, forgotten places, the residue of human presence.
And then the finale,Toxic Devotion, the drawing of us, darkness and intimacy merged into one.
