tattoo

POV: Hazel

TATTOO

My eyes kept sweeping the glittering crowd, searching for Kaden’s familiar silhouette. Where was he? The ball had been in full swing for over an hour and I still hadn’t spotted him. I forced my smile wider, pretending to enjoy the swirl of silk and diamonds around me.

Then Kaden’s sister appeared at my side near the drinks table. “There you are! You look incredible in that black dress. Seriously, you’re turning heads.”

I laughed softly. “Thanks. How was the shoot in Black City?”

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Absolute chaos. The model tripped on set, wardrobe ripped, and I spent half the day pinning fabric with safety pins. You would’ve loved the disaster footage.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “But seriously, you okay? You seem a little… distant tonight.”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my clutch.

Kaden: Minutes away. Traffic was hell.

I typed back quickly: Feeling ill. Bring meds up to the room when you arrive. Don’t make me come down.

I slipped the phone away and touched her arm. “Sorry, I’m actually not feeling great. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

She nodded, concerned. “Text if you need anything.”

I excused myself and slipped out of the ballroom, heels clicking up the wide staircase to the guest wing. The corridor was blissfully quiet after the noise below. Inside our room everything was exactly as we’d left it. The garment bag waited on the chair. I unzipped it, stepped into the sleek black dress, and zipped it up. The fabric hugged every curve like it had been made for this exact moment.

At the small mirror I pinned my hair up, letting a few soft strands fall loose. My reflection stared back—determined, a little nervous. The open bottle of wine on the dresser caught my eye. Welcome gift. Perfect. I poured a generous glass and drank it slowly at first, then faster. The warmth spread through my chest, loosening the tight knot of anxiety that had lived there for months. Liquid courage. I needed every drop tonight.

I poured a second glass and carried it to the bed. Lying back against the pillows, I stared at the high cream ceiling and let the plan settle in my mind. Kaden always drank at these family events. I’d stay close, keep his glass full, make him laugh, make him want me. One real night. That was all I needed. One night where he actually touched me like he meant it, where the wall between us finally cracked. Everything else— the family pressure, the cold silences, the aching loneliness—would follow.

I checked my phone. Only ten minutes since his text. The wine was working fast. My limbs felt loose, my thoughts softer. The careful, calculating version of me had gone quiet. For once I wasn’t planning every word.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Uneven. Heavy. Like someone was fighting to stay upright. I sat up quickly, heart kicking. He was early. Even better.

The door opened.

He stepped inside slowly—jacket hanging open, tie pulled loose, one hand braced on the doorframe. His movements were heavier than usual, less controlled. Definitely drunk. Perfect.

I stood and crossed the room, stopping right in front of him. Up close he smelled different tonight—darker, woodier than Kaden’s usual cologne—but the wine blurred the edges and I told myself it was just the whiskey.

“You made it fast,” I murmured, voice low and soft. I placed my palm flat against his chest. His heart hammered under my hand. “I don’t mind if you’re rough tonight. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He went completely still. “Hazel…” His voice was rough, gravelly, edged with warning.

I rose onto my toes and kissed him before he could say more.

For one heartbeat he didn’t move. Then something inside him broke. He kissed me back—hungry, desperate, nothing like the careful, distant kisses I was used to. His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, tongue sliding deep. The taste of whiskey flooded my mouth and I moaned softly against him.

He gave in. Just like that.

His other hand found my waist and yanked me flush against him. I felt every hard inch of him and my body answered instantly, heat pooling low. I tugged at his open collar, fingers brushing warm skin.

He walked me backward until my legs hit the bed. In one smooth motion he lifted me onto it, shoving the black dress up my thighs. The cool air hit my skin as he hooked two fingers into my lace panties and tore them down my legs in one sharp tug. I gasped. He didn’t tease. Two thick fingers pushed straight inside me, curling hard against that perfect spot. My back arched off the mattress and a broken moan tore from my throat.

“Fuck,” he growled against my lips, the word raw and almost angry. His thumb found my clit and circled it in tight, relentless strokes while his fingers pumped deeper. Wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet room. I was dripping down his hand, hips bucking shamelessly, chasing every thrust.

He added a third finger, stretching me open, and I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. Pleasure coiled tight and fast. He pumped harder, faster, mouth moving to my neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.

I came hard around his fingers—walls clenching, thighs shaking, a sharp helpless sound ripping from me as stars burst behind my eyes.

He didn’t give me time to breathe. He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked the dress higher, and spread my legs wide. I heard his belt, the zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then the thick, blunt head of his cock nudged my entrance—hot, heavy, insistent. He pushed in with one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch burned so perfectly I moaned into the sheets, fingers twisting in the fabric.

He fucked me like he was punishing us both—deep, hard strokes that slammed the headboard against the wall. One hand fisted my hair, pulling my head back so he could bite the side of my neck. The other gripped my hip, holding me exactly where he wanted while his cock dragged over every sensitive inch inside me. Every thrust hit that spot again and again until I was sobbing with it, pushing back to meet him, greedy and desperate.

“Take it,” he rasped against my ear, voice wrecked and dark. “All of it. Every fucking inch.”

He flipped me onto my back, hooked my knees over his elbows, and folded me in half. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper. His eyes locked on mine—dark, wild, completely unguarded—while he pounded into me. Sweat slicked his chest. His jaw clenched tight. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, like he needed this as badly as I did.

I reached between us and rubbed my clit in frantic circles. The third orgasm built fast, sharp, unstoppable. My walls fluttered around his thick cock as it hit that perfect spot over and over. Just as the peak crashed over me—body tightening, pleasure ripping through every nerve—my eyes dropped to his open shirt.

Black ink. An intricate, coiling dragon spread across the left side of his chest, right below the collarbone.

My husband hated tattoos. He had told me once, early in our marriage, with cold finality. He would never.

This exact dragon belonged to only one man in this house.

Nikolai Varyn.

My brother-in-law.

The realization slammed into me at the exact second my body shattered around him—pussy pulsing violently, a broken scream tearing from my throat as the orgasm tore me apart.

Oh God… what the hell have I done?