There’s a quiet in him that unsettles me. A silence that sits heavy when his eyes are on me, when his hands steady me without asking, when his voice softens for a fraction of a second before it hardens again. He is all edges and all care at once, marking me up with bruises, biting into my skin, dragging a marker across my flesh to write property in messy black letters. It should feel like ownership alone, but it feels like something else too, something harder to admit. Something almost tender.

He takes me where he wants me, when he wants me, and I let him. My body bends for him, opens for him, submits because that’s what we both crave: my surrender, his control. And yet, I resist in fragments. I tease with hesitation, I test with words I don’t mean, because I want him to push harder, claim deeper, remind me with every thrust that he owns me even when I play at being defiant.

********
The garage was cold, concrete beneath my back, his weight pressing me down. The air smelled of oil and dust, and still all I could breathe was him. He moved inside me, rough and relentless, his voice cutting through the rhythm: “Tell me you’re mine.”

I smirked, biting down the answer he wanted. “Yeah,” I whispered, “until I’m not.”

His eyes snapped fire into me, his grip tightening, his body driving deeper as if to bury the words before they could take root. “No,” he growled, low and certain, “You will always fucking be MINE.”

And in that moment, I was. Completely.

I said it to provoke him, not because I believed otherwise. I wanted the punishment, the correction, the sharp edge of his dominance cutting through my teasing. And I got it; his pace brutal, his hand gripping harder, his voice spitting possession into my mouth until there was no space left for doubt. I wanted him to remind me. I wanted him to prove it. And he did.

He tells me how much of a good girl I when I obey, when I take him the way he wants, when I break open and beg for more. Those two words undo me more than any bruise, more than any mark of ink across my skin. Because they are praise and command in the same breath, softness and ownership tangled so tightly that I can’t separate them.

It’s not just sex. It’s never just sex. It’s the push and pull, the guarded silences, the way we both hold back pieces of ourselves while giving everything in the moment. It’s the fear of too much, too little, not enough. It’s me questioning what it means, him refusing to answer in words but answering with the way he takes me, the way he won’t let me slip away even when I tease at leaving.

I am his. I know it. And he knows it too. That’s why he marks me, bruises me, makes me whisper confessions until my throat is raw. That’s why he snaps back when I push him, why he growls promises into my ear that sound more like threats but feel like devotion.

We’re both guarded. We’re both afraid. But when his body pins mine, when his voice tells me I’ll never belong to anyone else, when his eyes soften just enough to betray the care he hides; none of that fear matters. There’s no past, no future, only this moment.

And in this moment, my body is his. Always. Even when I pretend It’s not.