Page 44 of Beautifully Deranged

Because what the fuck? Because this is—this is insanity. Because he’s standing there, broad, unshaken, waiting for me to mark him. This is another way of him saying,I belong to you.

God help me, I might just do it.

He presses the tattoo gun into my hand. “Come on! Claim me. Carve your talent into me. Make me the luckiest man alive.”

I shove the gun back at him. “I don’t even know how to turn this fucking thing on.”

“I’ll guide you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

My fingers curl around the handle. “Fine. But if you end up with a shitty tattoo, that’s on you.”

“Nothing you do is shitty.”

I flick the machine on. It hums to life, vibrating against my fingers. I swallow thickly, pressing the tip to his skin. I start slow. Then I get used to the way the needle presses, the way the ink settles, the way it resembles a brush against canvas.

I focus, lock in, barely registering the deep, satisfied noise that rumbles from his throat. “Fuck, yes…” His breath is ragged. “That’s it, baby. Claim me. Mark me so deep no one can touch me without seeing you.”

I pretend his words aren’t coiling around my spine.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he rasps. “Should’ve begged you to make me yours in ways I can never undo. If I could carve your name into my fucking heart, I would.” His free hand grips the edge of the stool, knuckles going white.

I bite the inside of my cheek when I notice how hard he is, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing what this is doing to me.

I refuse to admit that his obsession, his madness, his fucking worship— is undoing me. I finish the last stroke, the needle humming as I lift it from his skin.

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but damn.

The skull sits perfectly on his forearm, a gun threading through its teeth like a wicked grin. He looks down at it, dragging his fingers across the fresh ink.“Fuck,” he rasps. “You have no fucking idea how beautiful your talent is.”

I wipe down his arm. “You say that like you weren’t—”

The scrape of metal unbuckling cuts me off.

I glance up, just as he slides his belt free, the leather hissing through the loops. He stands, pushing the stool back with his knee. His fingers work the button of his slacks, his eyes never leaving me. He pulls himself out, thick and aching in his palm. He starts jerking off to the tattoo.To me.

“I should have done this sooner.” His voice is gravel. “Should have let you mark me, ruin me,” he breathes.Heat flashes up my neck, my fingers tightening around the bloodied cotton pad. “Touch me. Give me something.” He pleads.

I don’t move. Because if I do, I lose.

“I haven’t touched myself since you left,” he rasps. “Not once.”

“Bullshit.”

“It felt like a betrayal. My own fucking hand, Lola. Even that felt like I was cheating on you.”

“And Lara?”

I still haven’t forgotten. Lara came to clean my apartment yesterday, and she was so fucking sweet I couldn’t even be cruel to her without feeling like I’m a bitter spare. She was just so shy,meek, and timid, that I would have hated myself for making her cry. She doesn’t owe me anything.

“Lara?” He snarls. His hand jerks faster, sharper, his body locked in a tension so violent I almost take a step back. “She never touched me. No one fucking touches me but you.”

He pants through his teeth, his cock throbbing in his palm, but his rage only fuels him, makes him lose control. His free hand flies out, knocking over a jar of ink, sending it crashing off the table. “You think I could even look at another woman? Fuck another woman? I can’t even breathe without you.” He’s so fucking dark like this. “I destroyed everything after you left. Shattered my goddamn apartment into pieces because I couldn’t fucking stand it without you in it.”

A rough, shattered groan rips through him as he spills over his own hand. For a moment, the room is thick with nothing but heavy, wrecked breaths. His eyes snap back to mine, hooded, burning, dangerous. “She only cleaned my apartment because I destroyed it,” he growls.

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