Page 12 of Ink Me Three Times
He stands, looming over me, breathing hard, his pupils blown wide as he looks at me like he wants to eat me alive.
And in that quiet, ruinous second, one thought lodges hard and hot in the center of my mind:
If this is what losing control feels like…
I don’t ever want to be in charge again.
"Turn around," he says, voice dark.
My pulse spikes.
He steps back, and I slide off the chair and spin to face the mirror on the far wall, gripping the armrests for balance. The angle shows me everything. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with need.
He comes up behind me and runs his hand up the back of my thigh, dragging it over the curve of my ass. Then he pushes into me in one brutal, perfect thrust.
I nearly collapse .
He’s thick. Hard. Filling me so deep I swear I can feel him in my chest. I clench around him and he swears, low and vicious, hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll feel the bruises tomorrow.
Good.
I pant, biting my bottom lip to keep from sobbing. "Fuck, you feel… so… deep…"
He fucks me harder. Faster. Each thrust rocks the chair, the mirror, the entire damn room.
I catch my own reflection, lips parted, mascara smudged, sweat slicked skin, and his body behind mine, mouth at my neck, hand creeping up between my breasts.
"Touch yourself," he rasps. "I want to see you fall apart again."
I obey.
Fingers sliding between my legs, circling my clit in desperate, clumsy swipes until I’m pulsing around him, crying out again, and this time he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, into it, past it… until I’m trembling so hard I can’t stand up.
He follows with a curse and a groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into me with one final, brutal thrust.
The room goes silent except for our breathing. Ragged, uneven, completely unhinged.
I slump forward over the chair, heart racing, skin slick with sweat. He steadies me with one hand at the small of my back, like he can feel me shaking.
We don’t speak.
Not yet.
The only sound is the soft whine of the tattoo machine still cooling beside us, the faint music drifting in from the front room, and the way we both try, and fail, to catch our breath.
Whatever this just was, I know one thing for certain:
I’m never going to forget it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Freddie
ONE WEEK LATER…
It’s not eveneight a.m. and Penny’s already coated in applesauce and righteous indignation because I cut her banana slices the "wrong way."
"Daddy," she says, voice trembling with toddler betrayal, "they’re not round. They’re…long!"
