You had always been fascinated by men with tattoos. There was something dangerously alluring about them—every inked line felt like a secret, every symbol like a story waiting to be uncovered. To you, tattoos weren’t just art; they were power, desire, temptation.

But your boyfriend, Eodore, was nothing like that. Cold, detached, his world revolved around business and documents, not reckless desires.

One afternoon, you dared to voice what had been lingering inside your head for so long. “I need man with a tattoos” you teased, your tone playful, almost pleading.

He barely glanced at you, eyes falling back on the pile of documents in front of him. No reaction. No words. Just silence.

You pouted, frustasion bubbling in your chest. **“You always ignore me,” you muttered under your breath.

But he gave you nothing. Just the sound of pen on paper, his indifference cutting deeper than any rejection.

Until that night.

The night when the two of you finally found yourselves alone. The room bathed in dim light, silence pressing in, your heart racing with anticipation. Eodore stood before you, unbuttoning his shirt, and what you saw next made your breath hitch.

There it was.

An ink-black dragon curling across his broad back, its scales winding upward, crawling toward his neck. Fierce. Elegant. Dangerous.

“Eodore?” Your voice trembled in disbelief.

“Hm?” His reply was low, detached, as if this revelation meant nothing to him.

But it meant everything to you. You stepped closer, hand lifting almost unconsciously. Your fingertips traced the inked beast, following its curve across his skin, your breath catching when you felt the heat of freshly marked lines—still slightly raw, still healing.

“This is insane, it’s beautiful,” you whispered, awe lacing your voice.

Before you could wander further, his hand shot back, grasping your wrist with a firm, unyielding grip. His touch was commanding, his eyes sharp. “Stop.”

“Why?” you whined softly, lips forming a pout, your gaze still glued to the ink that now seemed like a secret part of him he had been hiding.

He turned toward you, closing the space between your bodies. His presence swallowed you whole, his voice dropping, dark and deep. “Do you love me, or do you love the tattoo more, hmm?”

“Of course I love you,” you blurted out without hesitation, almost desperately.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment, calculating, unreadable. You rose on your toes, brushing your lips lightly against his, stealing a kiss to prove your words. But then, with a daring spark in your tone, you teased, “Still, I can’t deny, you look even hotter with it.”

For the first time, something shifted in his expression. A ghost of a smile—cold, dangerous—appeared on his lips. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place with a grip that felt more like a warning than affection.

“Naughty girl,” he whispered, voice laced with both threat and promise.