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My hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, cold fingers closing around the heat simmering beneath. He hisses, sharp and ragged, eyes wild and fierce, like a cornered animal daring me to push harder.

I crawl down the bed with deliberate slowness, tongue dragging a wet, filthy line from the tip of his cock to the swollen balls, leaving slick saliva like a mark of possession. His breath hitches deep, rough and ragged, muscles tensing beneath me.

I pump him hard and fast, letting my palm slap his cock against my tongue with a harsh smack, the way I know gets under his skin. His hips jerk up, frustration burning in his throat when I pull back.

“Get the fuck back here, little viper,” he growls, dark and dangerous, voice low and rough like gravel scraping steel. “Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

I smirk, peeling off my rattlesnake pajamas slowly and savage, bare skin flashing in the dim light. His eyes darken, wild hunger snapping to my pierced nipples, and he licks his lips like a predator eyeing prey.

“Fuck…I love those,” he rasps, voice thick with something sharp.

I cup my hands around them, squeezing just enough to make the tendons in his neck flex like he’s barely holding back. His cock twitches hard, leaking thick pre-cum as he strains against the sheets.

I grab the rope, the soft paintbrush, and the jar of blue paint from the nightstand, my fingers tight and possessive. Turning around, I catch the hunger burning in his gaze—half rage, half worship.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “tie me up.”

I straddle him, yank a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back until his throat is exposed, vulnerable—my favorite place.

“Hands where I say,” I growl, voice dark and dangerous, “or I’ll make you regret it.”

A crooked, defiant smile curls his lips. “You don’t scare me, little viper. Not even close.”

“That’s the point.”

The ropes dig in tight around his wrists, pulling his arms up high, leaving him completely exposed beneath me. His breath is ragged, chest heaving, but his eyes—those fierce, fire-lit eyes—are no longer challenging. They’re burning with surrender, with raw desperation.

I drag the cold, paint-dampened brush across the hollow of his throat, the slick blue paint leaving a slow, slick trail that cools and tingles against the heat of his skin. Every stroke presses like fire into his muscles, sending tremors through his body. His hips twitch, rubbing instinctively against the bed, slick pre-cum leaking out and coating his hardness. He’s aching—aching—but his body is still, pinned and silent, waiting.

“Look at you,” I whisper, voice thick with promise and danger. “So eager to be marked…to be mine.”

His hips jerk involuntarily against my hand, veins pulsing with desperate need. I press a finger just beneath his aching tip, and he shudders, eyes locked to mine, silently begging for release.

“Not so fast,” I growl, leaning in close so he can feel my breath, hot and fierce against his skin. “I decide when you get to come. Not you.”

His wrists are raw from straining against the rope, knotted tight above his head, arms stretched and trembling from tension—not just the kind that comes from restraint, but from the storm building inside him.

I sit astride him like a reckoning, brush in hand, trailing thick streaks of midnight blue across his chest in slow, punishing strokes. The paint cools against his burning skin, contrasting the heat of my breath when I lean in close. Every stroke is controlled. Every twitch in his body is surrender.

He’s hard beneath me—aching, leaking, bound and undone—but I don’t give him what he wants. Not yet.

I drag my soaked center along the length of his cock, not letting him in, just letting him feel it. Letting him suffer.

“Beg,” I whisper, low and cruel, nipping his lip until I taste copper. “Beg me like you’re starving.”

His jaw clenches, eyes glassy with desperation. “Please, Lou…” he rasps, voice fraying. “I need—fuck, I need you.”

I press the brush over his racing heart, slow circles, a mockery of gentleness. “No. Not like that. Mean it.”

His entire body jerks beneath me—rage, lust, and something primal clawing its way to the surface. The ropes creak. Then groan. Then⁠—

Snap.

They break.

His arms tear free, fists slamming down beside my hips as he surges up with a sound that’s not quite a moan and not quite a growl—it’s a war cry. His mouth crashes into mine, bruising and breathless, and all that I need twisted tight inside him uncoils like a whip.

“You don’t want me to mean it, little viper,” he murmurs against my throat, voice thick with heat and history. “You want me to show you—prove it in the way only I ever could.”