**CHAPTER FOUR: SESSION TWO**

The bell above the studio door didn’t so much ring as sigh, a tired metallic breath that did nothing to break the thick, antiseptic-heavy air inside. I stepped over the threshold and immediately felt it: the weight of him. Maddox. Even before I saw him, I knew he was there. He occupied space like gravity, bending the atmosphere around him, pulling it tight until it hummed.

The shop was quiet. Past closing hours. Just him, me, and the long shadows stretching across the concrete floor. The smell of green soap, isopropyl alcohol, and old leather clung to the walls. It should have been clinical. It should have been professional. It felt like standing inside a live wire.

I’d scheduled the second session without much thought, just a reflex to the first appointment. A simple piece of line work wrapping around my right ribs and dipping toward my hip. Nothing complicated. Nothing that would require me to peel myself bare the way I had to the day before. But as I stood there, clutching my bag like a shield, I realized I’d made a mistake. Or maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I’d just been too blind to see what I was walking into.

Maddox stood near the prep station, back to me, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The ink-stained skin of his forearms was mapped with old scars, faded crosses, and the quiet evidence of a lifetime spent pressing steel into flesh. He was washing his hands at the stainless steel sink, the water running cold and steady. When he heard me, he didn’t turn right away. He finished rinsing, shook the droplets from his fingers, and finally faced me.

His eyes locked onto mine. Dark. Unyielding. The kind of gaze that didn’t just look at you—it pinned you. Assessed you. Claimed you.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was low, roughened at the edges like stone worn smooth by a river. Not an accusation. A statement. Heavy with something else.

“Traffic,” I lied. My throat felt tight. I cleared it. “Sorry. I’m ready when you are.”

He nodded once, set the towel down, and crossed the room. He didn’t walk toward me like a friend or a colleague. He walked toward me like a predator closing distance. Like he’d been counting the seconds since I’d walked in.

“Shirt off,” he said, not asking. Not even really offering. He knew I’d do it. Knew I always did.

I fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, fingers clumsy, skin suddenly too sensitive. The first button gave. Then the second. I could feel his eyes on me, tracking every movement, every shift of fabric, every exposed inch of collarbone and stomach. When I shrugged the last of it off, the cool air of the studio hit my skin and raised goosebumps along my arms. I stood there in just a tank top and jeans, trying to breathe through the sudden pressure in my chest.

Maddox didn’t speak. He moved to the tattoo table, wiped it down with clinical efficiency, and gestured to the stool. “Sit.”

I sat. The leather creaked under my weight. He stepped behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint mix of sandalwood and something sharper, something masculine and unapologetic. He reached for the prepped stencil sheet, the transfer paper damp with solution. His hands brushed the back of my neck as he positioned it, and I jolted. Just a fraction. But I felt him feel it.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

I tried. My lungs refused to cooperate. They felt too small. Too shallow. Every inhale caught in my throat.

He peeled the backing off the stencil. Pressed it to my skin. Rubbed it in steady, methodical circles. His fingers were warm. Deliberate. When he lifted it, the black outline of the design clung to my ribs like a brand. It curved along my side, dipped below my navel, traced the delicate architecture of my hip bone. It required me to lift my tank top. Fully. He needed to see the canvas. Needed to map the lines perfectly.

His hands slid up my stomach, pushing the fabric past my ribs, over my breasts, resting just below my shoulder blades to keep it taut. His knuckles brushed my spine. A low breath escaped me. His thumb moved, slow, possessive, tracing the dip above my waist. The contact burned. I could feel the weight of his attention, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my skin, my nerves, my ribs. I was so exposed I felt raw. Vulnerable. Like he could see straight through to my pulse.

“Good,” he said. The word came out strained. Low. Like it had been dragged through something hot.

I didn’t trust my voice. I nodded. My chest rose and fell too quickly. I could feel my heart hammering against my sternum, echoing in my ears. The tattoo machine sat charging on the counter, but neither of us touched it yet. We just stood there, suspended in the thick, charged silence. His hands hadn’t moved. They stayed planted on my sides, holding my shirt up, fingers splayed. I could feel the calluses, the strength in his grip. The way his breath hitched when I shifted.

Then he leaned in.

His chest pressed against my back. His lips were a breath from the shell of my ear. I could feel the heat of his mouth against my skin. The smell of him enveloped me. My knees went weak. I gripped the edge of the stool, knuckles white. I couldn’t breathe. Not properly. The air felt stolen. Thicker. Heavier. Every nerve ending in my body fired at once.

“Wren,” he said. My name. From his mouth, it sounded like a vow. Like a threat.

I turned in the stool, desperate for air, desperate for space, but he was already moving. He stepped around to face me, his hands sliding down from my waist to my hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh just above my jeans. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. The intensity in them was staggering. It wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. Control. A lifetime of restraint finally cracking at the seams.

His hands slid up, under my tank top, palms flat against my stomach. I gasped. His fingers spread wide, mapping me, memorizing me. He lifted the shirt higher, baring my chest completely. The studio air hit my nipples, hardening them instantly. He watched them react. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered along his cheekbone.

“Look at me,” he ordered. Soft. But absolute.

I looked. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, devouring me. His thumbs brushed over my nipples. I shuddered. A broken sound slipped past my lips. His grip tightened. He pulled me forward until my chest met his. Until I could feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans. Until my breath came in short, ragged bursts.

He didn’t hesitate. He cupped my face, fingers tangling in my hair, and pulled me into a kiss.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was a collision. His mouth crashed against mine, hot and demanding, sweeping inside with a hunger that stole what little breath I had left. I cried out into him, my hands flying to his chest, clutching his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like coffee and something darker, something primal. His tongue slid against mine, possessive, claiming, tasting me like he had every right. Like he’d been waiting for this moment for years.

I melted. Completely. My knees buckled. He caught me, one arm wrapping around my waist, lifting me off the stool. I wrapped my legs around his hips instinctively, the movement drawing a low groan from his throat. He carried me to the treatment table, laid me down on the crisp white paper, and followed me down like a man possessed.

His mouth was everywhere. My jaw. My neck. The hollow of my throat. The curve of my collarbone. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark. I arched off the table, a moan tearing from my throat. My hands tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He shifted, straddling my hips, his weight pinning me down. The friction of his jeans against my bare stomach sent sparks straight to my core. I was so wet. So desperate. My hips rolled up against him, seeking relief, seeking him.

“Fuck,” he muttered against my skin. His voice was wrecked. Shattered. The renowned artist, the man who could steady a hand through hours of precision work, was trembling. His hands shook as he worked the button of his jeans. He pushed them down, shoving his boxers aside, freeing himself. I gasped at the sight of him. Thick. Veined. Already leaking at the tip. My mouth went dry. My breath came in shallow, panicked pulls.

He didn’t care. He didn’t slow down. He reached for the hem of my tank top, yanking it over my head in one rough motion. His hands cupped my breasts, thumbs rolling over my peaked nipples, squeezing just enough to make me cry out. I bucked against him, my back arching off the table. The sensation was electric. Overwhelming. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just feel.

“Breathe for me,” he growled, leaning down to lick a stripe up my sternum. His teeth grazed my skin. I whimpered. “I need you breathing, Wren. I need to feel it.”

“I can’t,” I gasped. My voice was barely a whisper. My lungs burned. My chest heaved. Every inhale caught in my throat. I was drowning in him. In the heat. The weight. The sheer, unrelenting presence of him.

He shifted his hand, sliding it down my stomach, over my belly button, lower. His fingers brushed the waistband of my jeans. I fumbled with the button, fingers shaking so badly I could barely work it. He took over, undoing it with two fingers, pushing the denim down my thighs, kicking it off. My jeans. My panties. All gone. I lay there completely bare, exposed beneath him, my legs spread wider than I’d ever intended.

He didn’t rush. He took his time. His hand slid between my legs, fingers slipping through my soaked folds. I cried out, hips jerking. He stilled immediately, pressing two fingers inside me, curling them just right. The pleasure was instantaneous. Sharp. Blinding. My back arched off the table. A broken sound tore from my throat.

“Fuck,” he breathed. His eyes locked onto mine. Dark. Intense. Possessive. “You’re so wet for me. So fucking perfect.”

He worked his fingers in and out, setting a slow, deliberate pace. My hips rolled against his hand, chasing the friction, chasing the pressure building low in my belly. He added a third finger, stretching me, filling me. I gasped, tears pricking my eyes. The sensation was too much. Too good. I couldn’t handle it. My chest heaved. My breath came in short, panicked bursts. I was drowning. Again. Always with him.

He leaned down, capturing my mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing my cries. His hand never stopped. His thumb found my clit, rubbing slow, firm circles. My orgasm hit like a tidal wave. My body clenched around his fingers. I screamed into his mouth, hips convulsing, back bowing off the table. He held me through it, one hand still buried inside me, the other gripping my thigh, keeping me open. Keeping me pinned.

When the waves finally receded, leaving me trembling and breathless, he didn’t pull away. He kept his fingers inside, slowly withdrawing them one by one, bringing himself to my lips. I looked down, eyes glazed, chest still heaving. He guided himself to my mouth. I took him in, wrapping my lips around the thick head, sucking slowly. He groaned, hips bucking. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me in place.

“Good girl,” he muttered. “Take it. All of it.”

I nodded against him, sucking deeper, one hand stroking the base. He watched me, jaw tight, eyes dark with something feral. When he pulled out, he flipped me onto my stomach without breaking the kiss. I cried out as he pressed me down against the table. He reached for the lube, squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, then pressed two inside me again, stretching me, preparing me. I sobbed at the fullness. The ache. The anticipation.

He pulled out. Reached for his jeans. Slipped free of them fully. He lined himself up with me. Pressed the tip against my entrance. I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. My breath was ragged. Shallow. I couldn’t catch it. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me,” he ordered. Rough. Desperate.

I turned my head. Our eyes met. His were blown wide. Dark. Swamped with want. With possession. He pushed in.

I screamed.

He took me to the hilt in one slow, devastating thrust. The stretch was intense. Overwhelming. My body burned. My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just felt him. Filled me. Claiming me. He went still, buried deep, forehead pressed against my back. His breath was hot against my skin. His arms wrapped around me, holding me in place.

“Fuck, Wren,” he groaned. “You’re killing me.”

I couldn’t speak. My chest heaved. My lungs burned. I nodded against the table, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. He pulled back slightly, then drove into me again. Hard. Deep. The rhythm was brutal. Unrelenting. Each thrust hit that perfect spot, sending shockwaves through my core. My hands slid back, gripping his thighs. My hips met his with every drive. I was drowning in it. In him. In the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it.

He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth at my ear. “You’re mine,” he growled. “Say it.”

“I’m—” I gasped. Couldn’t finish. My lungs refused. “I can’t—breathe—”

“Then don’t,” he snapped. “Just take it. Just take me.”

He picked up the pace. Harder. Faster. The table groaned. My skin burned against the paper. My body clenching around him, chasing the next peak. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The pleasure was too much. I was breaking. Shattering. My orgasm hit like a detonation. My body seized. My back arched. I cried out, a raw, broken sound that echoed off the walls. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and thick, filling me to the brim as he came. He groaned my name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it.

He stayed inside me. Buried deep. Holding me down. His breath was ragged against my neck. His hands trembled. The intensity was still radiating off him, thick and heavy. I lay there, chest heaving, lungs burning, skin slick with sweat. My body trembled. My mind was blank. White noise. Just sensation. Just him.

He finally pulled out. The loss was immediate. I whimpered. He rolled me onto my back, pressing me into the table, caging me with his arms. He kissed me. Slow this time. Deep. Sweeping inside, tasting me, claiming me. I kissed him back, clumsy, desperate, my hands sliding up his chest, over his ink-stained shoulders, into his hair.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against mine. His breathing was slow. Controlled. But his eyes were still dark. Still intense. Still possessive.

He reached down, wiping the mess between my legs with a warm cloth, his touch gentle now. Reverent. I watched him, chest still rising and falling too quickly. My lungs felt like glass. My throat was raw. I couldn’t breathe. Not really. Not without him.

He set the cloth aside. Leaned in, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. Then another. Then lower. “Session’s not over,” he murmured against my skin. “But the tattoo can wait.”

I laughed. A broken, breathless sound. My fingers traced the line of his jaw. “It’s already ruined.”

He stilled. Looked at me. “No.” His voice was low. Certain. “It’s just changed. Like everything else.”

He kissed me again. Slow. Deep. Possessive. And this time, when I breathed, it was because he let me. Because he held me so tightly I had no choice but to exist in his rhythm. In his heat. In his hands.

The studio lights hummed. The tattoo machine sat silent. The line work waited on my skin, untouched. But none of it mattered. Not anymore.

Because Maddox wasn’t focusing on the ink. He was focused on me. And I was drowning in it. Completely. Irrevocably. And I’d never pull back.