The room pulsed with the aftermath of heat.
My legs were trembling, still parted where Shane had left his mouth minutes ago. My chest rose and fell in shaky bursts. I couldn't tell if it was the orgasm or the gravity of what just happened, but something inside me had been unspooled. Ripped loose.
The low hum of the tattoo machine had stopped. Silence sat between us now like something dangerous. He stood behind me, his breathing steady, controlled like mine hadn't just wrecked.
I couldn't see him.
But I felt him.
Close. Still in control. Always in control.
His hand brushed down the curve of my back, light but purposeful. He reached for a warm towel and began wiping down the area around my ribs, cleansing the ink and fluids with slow, deliberate strokes.
"You did well, Jade," Shane murmured. His voice held that same wicked calmness it always did, the kind that made you second guess your own heartbeat. "Most girls cry. You came instead."
I should've felt ashamed.
But I didn't.
I felt claimed.
"I didn't come here for that," I whispered.
He chuckled under his breath. "No. But you'll come back for it."
He smoothed a cool ointment over the fresh tattoo, and I flinched. Not from pain but the aftershock. My body felt like a live wire, twitching under every touch.
He watched me.
I felt his eyes on my side, on the trembling flesh of my stomach, on the faint marks he left along my inner thigh.
"You take pain beautifully," he said. "Like someone who doesn't want to be saved."
Aftercare or Control?
Shane peeled off his gloves with a sharp, practised flick and tossed them aside.
Then, without warning, he knelt in front of me again.
My breath hitched.
I thought he was inspecting the ink.
Instead, he lowered his mouth and pressed a kiss just beneath the gauze right above my hip bone. Slow. Warm. Possessive.
It wasn't lust.
It was ownership.
His lips skimmed down the path of his earlier destruction. When he looked up at me, the fire hadn't left his eyes.
"You'll keep this covered for four hours," he said, voice like silk dragged over gravel. "No tight clothing. No water. No touching."
I swallowed. "The tattoo?"
His smirk was pure sin. "Anywhere. Until I say so."
My body tightened again, just from the tone.
He pulled my bra gently over my shoulders, clipped it shut, and then held out my shirt like I was porcelain.
"You don't dress a canvas like a person," he muttered.
"You dress her like a masterpiece."
The Red Velvet Box
Shane walked over to a locked drawer beneath his workstation. It was built into the frame of the wall, matte black, with a small silver crest engraved into the metal.
He pulled a chain from around his neck thin black leather with a single key.
Unlocked the drawer.
Inside was a red velvet box.
He opened it slowly, as if revealing something sacred.
A single chain.
Silver. Fine. And at its centre, a tiny ink drop charm.
"Come here," he said.
I stepped forward on shaky legs, unable to tear my eyes from it.
He fastened it around my neck himself, fingers grazing my throat.
"What is this?" I breathed.
"A mark," Shane said. "So I know where you belong."
I left the back room feeling like I had just stepped off the edge of something dangerous. The lobby was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then, the bell above the door jingled.
A girl walked in.
Tall. Regal. Red lips. Long braids. Silk scarf tied neatly at her neck.
She looked at me.
Her gaze wasn't curious. It wasn't confused.
It was knowing.
She saw the flush in my cheeks. The chain at my neck.
And she didn't blink.
She just gave the faintest smirk and I saw it:
The same necklace.
Same ink drop charm.
Same silver chain.
My stomach dropped.
The receptionist barely glanced up. "He's ready for you," she said, her voice like molasses.
The girl walked past me into the back room.
Past the scene of my undoing.
And all I could do was stand there marked, shaky, wet between the thighs, and wonder if I'd just become another entry in Shane's collection.
Not the only one.
Not the last.
But maybe the first who'd break the chain.