Page 85 of You Owe Me

“Say it.”

“I’m part of you.”

“Good girl.”

I open the door for her. She slides inside, hand hovering over her fresh ink. When I sit beside her, I finally check my watch.

156 BPM.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels like ownership.

And she wears it well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rumor has it, she let him mark her.

Ainsley

The car door clicks shut, and I sit here, trying to process what just happened while my entire nervous system stages a revolt.

My wrist is on fire. Not metaphorically. It’s literally burning with fresh ink and rebellion and the kind of adrenaline that makes you want to either throw up or run a marathon. The tattoo is tiny, just three letters, but it feels like it’s radiating heat through my entire body. Like it’s rewriting my DNA one pulse at a time.

I.O.U.

In his handwriting. Permanent. Forever.

And the worst part? I wanted it.

I felt like I was signing a contract with the devil himself.

Maybe I was.

Maverick slides into the driver’s seat beside me, and I catch a glimpse of his watch before he kills the display. 156 BPM. His heart rate is spiking, which means I should be worried about him. I should be thinking about beta blockers and stress management and all the ways I’m probably shortening his life expectancy.

But I’m not thinking about any of that.

I’m thinking about the way he looked at me in that tattoo parlor. Like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time. Like watching me get inked was better than anything he’s ever witnessed.

I’m thinking about how his chest looked when he took off his shirt—all sharp angles and controlled power, the new tattoo over his heart already red and swollen. My handwriting. My sloppy, imperfect scrawl that he’s now wearing like a badge of honor.

Goodness, what is wrong with me? Normal girlfriends don’t get matching tattoos in sketchy parlors after their boyfriends catch them committing academic espionage. Normal girlfriends have conversations. They work through their issues with therapy and communication and maybe a shared Netflix password.

But then again, Maverick Lexington isn’t exactly what you’d call a normal boyfriend.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” I say, and even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. Because if he asked me to do it again right now, I would. Without question. Without hesitation.

That should terrify me. It does terrify me. But it also makes me so wet.

“You didn’t let me do anything,” he replies, voice low and controlled in that way that makes my stomach flip. “I told you to get in the chair. You did.”

The casual dominance in his tone should piss me off. It should make me want to lecture him about consent and autonomy and the fundamental principles of feminist theory I learned in my gender studies elective.

Instead, it makes me press my thighs together and try not to whimper.

What the hell is happening to me? Since when do I get turned on by being ordered around? Since when do I find possessiveness romantic instead of problematic?

Since Maverick, apparently. Since the moment he walked into my life and flipped every single principle I thought I had upside down.

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