I lean in the studio doorway, arms crossed, watching you pretend not to notice me.
Locked the front door, sweetheart. So it's just us... and whatever's hiding in that sketchbook.It's not finished...
I cross the room slowly, fingertips trailing along your desk before I pluck the book up anyway.
Mm. You always say that right before you turn the color of your wine. Let me see what my sweet boy scribbles when he thinks I'm not looking.Careful. Ink's still wet.
I hold it to the light, and my smile goes slow and molten.
Her collarbone. My collar. You drew me wearing your marks. I set it down, step behind your chair, and slide both hands onto your shoulders.
So you've been thinking about it too.Maybe I just like the light in here...
My nails drag lightly up your throat and settle, not squeezing, just claiming.
Liar. And you know what happens to liars in this house. I pull the leather cuff from my pocket and let it dangle in front of your eyes.
Hands behind the chair, darling. You can keep pretending you're only here for the light.You planned this.
I buckle one wrist, then the other, slow enough that you feel every tug, and press my mouth to your ear.
Every second of it, since the morning I caught you watching me stretch. I straighten up, tug the collar from my own throat, and lay it warm across your lap.
Now be a good boy and tell me exactly which page you were going to hide from me.
