EPILOGUE #2
Mark me, I think. Take it. Make it so I can never look at myself without seeing you.
The vibration of the needle feels like it's rewriting my DNA. It is sewing him into my skin.
When the artist finishes, Sebastian takes the cloth.
"I'll do it," he says.
He cleans the blood and ink away. His touch is incredibly gentle, wiping the angry red skin. He applies the ointment. He smooths the bandage over the fresh brand.
He stands. He pays the artist. He dismisses her with a curt nod, like she was never there. Never existed.
The door closes.
We are alone. The smell of antiseptic fades, replaced by the scent of sandalwood and sex.
"Let me see," Sebastian says.
I open my robe fully. I spread my leg again.
The bandage is white against my skin. Hidden beneath it is the black star.
Sebastian stares at it. He looks like a man who has just found religion.
"Playroom," he says. "Now."
The transition from the library to the playroom is a blur of intent.
He doesn't carry me. He leads me by the hand. My marked hand, the bandage on my wrist white against his dark sleeve.
Inside the burgundy walls, the air is thick with anticipation. It is darker here, the lighting warm and low. He locks the door. The sound of the bolt sliding home is the sound of the rest of the world disappearing.
He strips off his shirt. He tosses it aside. The compass rose tattoo over his heart is revealed. Faded with time, but distinct. The map that has been waiting for its star.
"The ink is fresh," he says, turning to me. "I can't touch it."
"I know."
"But I need to worship it."
He lifts me onto the padded bench. He binds my wrists to the overhead hooks. Careful of the new tattoo, securing the cuffs higher up my forearms, leaving the bandaged wrist displayed like a jewel.
He spreads my legs. He secures my ankles to the lower posts.
I’m wide open. Displayed. The robe is gone. I'm naked, bound, and branded.
He kneels between my thighs. He doesn't touch me yet. He just looks. He looks at the bandage on my thigh, then up to the gold collar at my throat, then into my eyes.
"You did it," he says, wonder in his voice. "You actually did it."
"I told you. I'm staying."
"You're marked." He runs his hands up the insides of my thighs, his thumbs pressing into the muscle, stopping just short of the bandage. "You're branded property, now."
"Yes."
"Mine."
He leans in. He kisses the skin right next to the fresh tattoo. Gentle. Reverent. The warmth of his breath presses against the sensitive, traumatized skin.
Then he moves inward.
His tongue finds me.
I cry out, straining against the cuffs. The sensation is blinding. The sting of the fresh ink radiating heat, the wet warmth of his mouth on my clit, the heaviness of the collar at my throat.
He eats me like a starving man. There is no finesse today, only hunger. He licks long, broad strokes, tasting his claim. He sucks hard, drawing me into his mouth, consuming the evidence of my surrender.
"Master," I gasp, my head rolling back against the leather. "Please."
He stops. He looks up. His face is wet.
"Please what?"
"Please... fill me."
He stands. He unbuckles his pants. He shoves them down. He is hard. Painfully hard, veined and heavy.
"You marked yourself for me," he says, his eyes black pools. "Now take me."
He enters me.
It is a slow, filling slide. He stretches me, fills me, claims the space inside me just as the ink claimed the skin outside. He pushes deep and holds there.
"Look at where I am," he growls.
I look down. It is a tableau of possession.
His hips are pressed against mine. The compass rose on his chest is directly above me. And down below, where our bodies are joined, the bandage on my thigh presses against his hip bone.
The compass has found the star.
"I'm home," I whisper.
He begins to move.
It isn't gentle. It is hard. Heavy. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. He fucks me with a possessive rhythm that rattles the bench, driving into me again and again, reasserting the truth we both know.
Every thrust says mine. Every drag of his hips says forever.
The burn of the tattoo on my thigh is a sharp, stinging reminder of what I did today. It hurts, and it feels like glory.
I'm his and this is where I belong, and how I belong. Because there is only one way to belong to a man like Sebastian York. It's with absolute surrender and he has conquered my fears and doubts about whether this is what I want.
I'm not a contract. I'm not a companion.
I wear his collar and his ink.
I’m his.
"Come for me," he orders, his voice rough and broken. "Come on my cock. Show me you're mine."
I let go.
The orgasm rips through me, brighter than the pain, deeper than the fear. I scream his name, my body clenching around him, milking him, worshiping him. The pleasure is absolute. A white light that obliterates everything but him.
He follows me seconds later. A groan tears from his throat, his control shattering as he pours himself into me. He drives deep one last time and holds, shuddering, binding us together.
We collapse. He rests his weight on me, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his lips against the gold of the collar.
Silence returns to the room. But it isn't empty silence. It is full. It is heavy with sweat and scent and truth.
He lifts his head. He kisses me. Slow, deep, tasting of sex and salt and devotion.
He pulls back. He looks at the star on my wrist, peeking out from the bandage. He looks at the bandage on my thigh.
I smile. My heart feels full enough to burst.
"How do you feel," he asks.
"Like I've found my home."
He unlocks the cuffs. He picks me up, cradling me against his chest, careful of my sore skin. He carries me out of the playroom, down the hall, toward the bedroom where the lights of the city are waiting.
We will sleep. We will wake. We will fight, and we will negotiate.
And every morning, I will kneel.
Under his Hand.
Under the stars.
At the feet of my Master.
Home.
Dark romance.
Dangerous obsession.