Chapter 4 #2
And never assume someone else will do it for you.
I remember the exact second she caught my eye.
Not because the room went quiet—fundraisers never do—but because I did.
Everything in me stilled.
She was standing across the room beneath soft amber lights; canvases displayed behind her like silent confessions. Ink traced every visible inch of her skin, not careless or loud, but intentional. Like each piece had been earned. Claimed. Her tattoos weren’t decoration.
They were history.
The canvases she painted were selling fast—Truth. Safety. Freedom.
Words people like to say but rarely live by.
This fundraiser wasn’t just charity. It was a lifeline for unhoused victims of domestic violence. I was there as a donor, of course. My name carried weight whether I wanted it to or not. People knew who Silas Winters was.
That night, I didn’t care.
All my attention was on her.
She wore a royal blue dress that hugged her curves like it had been designed with her body in mind. The slit climbed up her thigh just enough to be distracting without trying to be. Black heels. Minimal jewelry. None of it mattered.
Her tattoos were her jewelry.
Long, naturally curly hair fell down her back, dark and untamed. When she laughed—soft, genuine—something sharp tightened in my chest. Not pain. Recognition.
I watched her explain one of the canvases to a buyer. A lioness formed entirely of black and blood-red lilies.
“My favorite flower,” she said, smiling. “Lilies and lionesses belong together.”
That was the moment it hit me.
The pressure.
The pull.
The unmistakable spark of sexual awareness threading through something deeper.
I didn’t want her body first.
I wanted her.
I moved before I could talk myself out of it.
As I approached, she smiled again—this time at me—and I swear the room dimmed around her. When I stopped in front of her, close enough to smell coconut and something softer underneath, I introduced myself.
“Silas Winters.”
No titles. No mirrors.
Her hand slid into mine when she replied,
“Hello, Silas. Nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca Valentine.”
The second our palms touched, heat surged. Not rushed. Not reckless. Controlled—but powerful enough to make my jaw tighten.
Steam rose between us. I felt it. I knew she did too.
There was something there. I couldn’t name it yet.
But I knew one thing with terrifying certainty—
She wasn’t leaving my life.
From that night forward, my thoughts stopped being clean.
I told myself it was about the art. About her talent. About the meaning behind the ink.
That was bullshit.
What I really wanted was her hands on me.
Not polite.
Not careful.
I wanted to feel her fingers press into my skin, steady and sure, needle buzzing as she leaned close enough for her breath to hit my neck. I wanted to watch her focus—bite her lip the way artists do when they’re lost in their work—while she marked me permanently.
Claimed me!
Fuck me!
The thought of her touching me like that—slow, intimate, deliberate—did things to me I hadn’t let myself feel in years. Ink wasn’t just ink. It was permission. It was proximity. It was her hovering over my body, straddling the line between professional and something far more dangerous.
I imagined the drag of latex gloves against my skin.
Her thighs brushing mine.
The heat of her body so close it would be impossible to pretend this was just business.
I didn’t just want her to tattoo me.
I wanted her to see me.
To know what she was doing to me.
To feel the tension coiled tight beneath my control and understand—without me ever saying it—that I would let her ruin me if she asked.
I wanted her art etched into my flesh so deeply that even after she walked away, I’d still feel her there.
And that’s when I realized the truth.
This wasn’t admiration.
This wasn’t curiosity.
This was possession taking root.
I hadn’t touched her yet.
But my body already knew her.
And once Rebecca Valentine put her hands on me—inked me, marked me—
there would be no pretending I was still the man I’d been before her.
Six months ago.
That’s when I put myself under her hands.
I didn’t book something small.
I didn’t want a symbol I could hide.
I wanted my back.
All of it.
I sent the request through the app like anyone else. No special treatment. No shortcuts. The day came and Jace dropped me off out front. I told him to wait. This was something I needed to do alone.
She looked up when I walked in.
That smile — fuck.
“Silas,” she said, like she remembered me.
“Rebecca.”
I clocked the shop out of habit. Noticed Izzy in the back, posted up at the computer, half-focused on whatever he was doing. I noted him and moved on. At the time, he didn’t matter.
She asked what I wanted.
“I emailed you the design.”
When she opened it, I saw the pause. The recognition.
It was her painting.
An indigenous warrior woman. Strong. Unbreakable. A crown of bones and thorns pressed into her hair, blood dripping from the petals like sacrifice. Power. Survival.
“I always thought someone would get this one eventually,” she said, almost to herself.
She sounded… pleased.
Izzy left not long after. Door shut. Lock clicked. And suddenly it was just us.
She had me lie face-down on the table, my back bare, exposed. The position alone did something to me — vulnerable, open, completely at her mercy. When her hands touched my skin for the first time, steadying herself before the needle met flesh, my body reacted instantly.
I groaned low before I could stop myself.
She leaned closer as she worked, her hips brushing the edge of the table, her forearm occasionally grazing my side. Every touch was deliberate. Professional. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with control.
And it drove me insane.
She talked while she worked. Asked questions. Tried to pull pieces of me out.
I gave her nothing.
Instead, I asked about her.
Her life.
Her art.
How she got here.
She spoke with pride — about leaving New York, about building something of her own, about helping people who had nothing left. But beneath it, I heard it. The strain. The old pain that never quite leaves your voice once you’ve lived through enough.
She asked if I needed a break.
“No.”
She asked again later.
“No.”
The truth was simpler than anything I could say out loud.
I didn’t want her to stop touching me.
Didn’t want her to notice the tension locked in my body, the way her scent — coconut and heat and something that felt like temptation — was sinking into me and settling low. I stayed perfectly still, breathing slow, because if she caught on, I wasn’t sure I could keep control.
The longer she worked, the more it hit me.
Her voice.
It was my mother’s.
The same quiet strength. The same way pain lived just under the surface, never fully healed, just endured. That realization twisted something deep in my chest.
That was the moment desire turned into something darker.
Something permanent.
I knew then — without hesitation — that I would burn whatever stood in her way. That I would protect Rebecca Valentine at any cost, even from things she didn’t know were coming.
When the session ended, she wiped my back clean, stepping back to admire her work.
I paid her.
Thanked her.
Told her I couldn’t wait to finish the piece.
She smiled like it was just business.
She had no idea.
She’d see me again soon.
And next time, it wouldn’t be under bright shop lights with buzzing machines and rules between us.
Next time, she’d step into my world.
And by the time she realized what that meant —
After Silas left the shop, he went home to clean up and shower, having cleared the entire day for his session with Becca.
He couldn't stop thinking about her all the way home—the way she moved, the way she breathed, the electricity between them.
He shifted restlessly in his seat as Jace drove him back.
When they pulled up to his property, Jace dropped him off and headed back to the office to prepare for a new mission they had scheduled for tonight.
Silas stepped into his beautiful home—a custom barn dominium built on twelve acres of private land.
High ceilings soared above the open floor plan, and the master suite featured walk-in closets that could house a small boutique.
He made his way to the master bathroom, already peeling off his clothes as he went.
Naked, he stood before the mirror for a moment, still thinking about Becca and their session together.
The memory of her touch lingered on his skin like a phantom caress.
He stepped into his spacious stand-up shower, where three shower heads came to life, cascading hot water over him from multiple angles.
Steam quickly filled the space, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.
He began to lather his body, but all he could see were flashbacks—Becca's smile, the way she exhaled close to him, her fingertips trailing across his skin. His cock began to harden again, responding to the vivid memories playing behind his closed eyelids.
Silas gripped the base of his dick and stroked slowly toward the tip, adding more soap as he went.
He braced one hand against the tile wall while the other worked his shaft with deliberate, measured strokes.
He began to rotate his hips slowly, thinking about Becca, imagining all the positions he was planning to put her in.
His pace quickened. He pictured her beautiful, tattooed body, that soft skin he'd barely gotten to touch, imagined her sitting on top of him wearing nothing but black lace underwear.
In his mind, her breasts were drenched with his saliva from the amount of kissing and sucking he'd lavish on what he could only imagine were perfect pink nipples.