Chapter 17
seventeen
. . .
I stand before the full-length mirror in our bathroom, the plush towel dropped to the floor at my feet, my fingers tracing the outline of the still-tender skin on my hip.
His name—SUTTON—etched in elegant script across the curve where my hip meets my thigh, a permanent declaration of ownership that no one will see but us.
The tattoo is two days old, the black ink stark against my pale skin, the area around it still slightly pink from the trauma of the needles.
I can't stop looking at it, can't stop touching it, fascinated by this visible, indelible proof that I am his in a way that can never be undone.
The diamond on my finger can be removed, but this mark will stay with me forever, a secret testimony to the man who has claimed every part of me—body, heart, and soul.
I close my eyes, remembering how it happened. We were lying in bed three nights ago, his head resting on my stomach as his fingers traced idle patterns on my hip—a habit of his when we're relaxed after making love.
"I want my name here," he'd said suddenly, his voice soft but certain as his thumb pressed against the spot that now bears his mark. "Permanently. Where only I can see it."
I'd expected to feel alarm at the suggestion, at this ultimate act of possession. Instead, a thrill had run through me, a heat that pooled where his fingers still caressed my skin.
"Yes," I'd whispered, the word escaping before I could analyze it, before I could question why the idea of being branded with his name excited rather than repelled me.
He'd raised his head then, dark eyes searching mine for any hesitation, any doubt. Finding none, his lips had curved into that smile that still makes my heart skip—predatory, possessive, but with an underlying tenderness reserved only for me.
"Tomorrow," he'd said, a command rather than a suggestion. And true to his word, a tattoo artist had arrived at the penthouse the very next day—a discreet, professional woman who asked no questions about why this wealthy man wanted his name inked on his much-younger fiancée's skin.
Sutton had watched the entire process, his eyes never leaving the needle as it drove his name into my flesh one tiny, painful prick at a time.
His face had been a mask of focused intensity, his hand holding mine, thumb stroking my palm in silent comfort whenever I winced.
There had been something ritual about it, something ancient and primal in the act of marking me as his in such a permanent way.
"Mine," he'd whispered when it was done, when the artist had cleaned away the excess ink and applied the first layer of healing ointment. "Forever mine."
Now, two days later, I still can't quite believe I've done this—allowed myself to be marked like property, branded like livestock.
The old Cecily, the one who ran from Raymond's possession, would be horrified.
But I'm not that girl anymore. I'm Sutton's now, in every way imaginable, and the tattoo is just the physical manifestation of what we both already know to be true.
The bathroom door opens behind me, and I don't have to turn to know it's him. I feel his presence like a physical touch, a shift in the air that makes my skin prickle with awareness. His reflection appears in the mirror, eyes immediately dropping to where my fingers still trace his name on my hip.
"Beautiful," he says, his voice rough with an emotion I recognize—that mixture of possessiveness and reverence that still takes my breath away. "Even more perfect than I imagined."
He moves behind me, his fully clothed body contrasting with my naked one in the mirror. His hand joins mine on my hip, fingers tracing the letters of his name with feather-light touches that make me shiver despite the warmth of the bathroom.
"Does it still hurt?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I shake my head. "Not really. It's just... sensitive."
His lips curve in that smile that never fails to make my heart race.
"Good." His mouth lowers to my shoulder, placing a soft kiss there before moving up to my neck.
"I've been thinking about this moment since we had it done.
Thinking about how it would feel to touch you, to taste you, knowing my name is permanently etched into your skin. "
His words send a flood of heat through me, pooling low in my belly. His hand leaves my hip to slide around my waist, pulling me back against him so I can feel the hard length of him through his trousers.
"I love it," I whisper, my eyes never leaving his in the mirror. "Love knowing I'll carry a part of you with me forever. Love being marked as yours in a way that can never be undone."
A low growl escapes him, his arms tightening around me. "Say that again," he demands, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to make my stomach clench with anticipation.
"I love being marked as yours," I repeat, my voice stronger this time, more certain.
"I love knowing everyone will see the ring on my finger and know I'm taken, but only you will know about this—" I guide his hand back to the tattoo, pressing his fingers against the still-tender skin, "—this secret proof that I belong to you completely. "
His control shatters. He spins me around, lifting me with that effortless strength that still thrills me, setting me on the edge of the bathroom counter. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all hunger and possession, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them to accommodate his hips.
I respond with equal fervor, my fingers tangling in his hair, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. There's none of the hesitation, none of the shyness I felt in our early encounters. Now, I know what I want, what we both want, and I'm not afraid to ask for it.
"Please," I gasp when he finally breaks the kiss, his mouth moving down my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. "Please, Sutton, I need you inside me. Need to feel you claim me."
His eyes darken at my words, at the naked hunger in my voice. "Say it again," he commands, his hands leaving my thighs to work at his belt, his zipper. "Beg for me, Cecily. Let me hear how much you need this."
"Please," I repeat, not even caring how desperate I sound. "I need you. Need your hands on me, your mouth on me." I reach between us, bold in a way I never was before him, helping him free himself from his trousers. "Need you inside me. Need to feel owned by you, possessed by you."
A groan tears from his throat, his control visibly slipping at my words, at my touch.
"Look at what you've become," he says, his voice rough with desire.
"My perfect, greedy little fiancée. So desperate for me.
So eager to be filled." One hand slides between us, finding me already wet and ready for him.
"Always so wet for me. Always so ready."
"Only for you," I assure him, my hips arching into his touch, seeking more. "Only ever for you."
He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against me without pushing in. "Tell me again who you belong to," he demands, his eyes burning into mine. "Tell me who owns this body, this pleasure."
"You do," I gasp, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need to have him inside me. "I'm yours, Sutton. Completely, irrevocably yours. The tattoo proves it. I'll never belong to anyone else."
That's all he needs to hear. He thrusts forward, entering me in one powerful stroke that makes me cry out—not in pain but in the overwhelming relief of having him fill me so completely.
He pauses when he's fully seated within me, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"Mine," he growls, the word both a claim and a prayer. "All mine."
"Yours," I agree, my hands sliding beneath his shirt to feel the hard planes of his back, the coiled strength there. "Show me. Show me how completely I belong to you."
He begins to move then, each thrust deep and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. There's an intensity to this encounter that surpasses even our usual passion—something wild and primal awakened by the sight of his name permanently etched into my skin.
His hand finds my hip, fingers pressing against the tattoo, and the slight sting of pain mingling with pleasure sends me spiraling toward release faster than I expected. I cry out his name, my inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
"That's it," he encourages, his rhythm never faltering despite my climax. "Come for me. Come around me while I touch my name on your skin. Show me who owns your pleasure."
The dual sensation of his fingers on the tattoo and his length moving inside me prolongs my orgasm, wave after wave of ecstasy washing over me until I'm limp and trembling in his arms. Only then does his control slip, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent as he chases his own release.
"Look at me," he commands, waiting until my eyes focus on his. "I want to see your face when I fill you. When I claim what's mine."
I hold his gaze as his rhythm falters, as his release pulses hot inside me, his groan of satisfaction echoing in the tiled bathroom. We stay connected as the aftershocks subside, his forehead pressed against mine, our breathing gradually slowing to normal.
When he finally withdraws, helping me down from the counter with surprisingly gentle hands, there's something almost reverent in his touch. He kneels before me, his mouth finding the tattoo, placing a soft kiss over his name.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my skin. "So beautiful. So completely mine."
The tenderness in his voice, in his touch, brings unexpected tears to my eyes. This is Sutton at his most raw, his most honest—the possessive, obsessive man who has remade my world in his image, who has shown me that true freedom sometimes comes in the form of belonging completely to another.
As he rises, his eyes find mine, a flicker of uncertainty there that I rarely see. "You don't regret it?" he asks, his hand returning to trace the letters on my hip. "The tattoo?"
I shake my head, surprised by how certain I am. "No," I tell him honestly. "I love it. I love being yours in every possible way."
Relief washes over his features, quickly replaced by that confident smile I've come to know so well. He pulls me into his arms, his chin resting on top of my head.
"Good," he says simply. "Because I'm never letting you go, Cecily. Not ever. This—" his hand returns to the tattoo, a possessive touch that sends a renewed spark of desire through me, "—is just the beginning of how completely you'll belong to me."
And as I lean into his embrace, as I feel the solid strength of him against me, I realize that I've crossed a line I never thought I would. I've surrendered not just my body but my very identity to this man. Given him a level of ownership that goes beyond rings or vows or legal contracts.
I should be terrified by this realization, by how completely I've allowed myself to be possessed. But all I feel is a sense of rightness, of having found exactly where I belong in this world.
Marked as his. Claimed as his. Forever his.
And somehow, that feels like the most perfect freedom I've ever known.