You don’t remember who dared who first. Only that it was late, the wine was good, and Helena had that look in her eyes — the one that usually meant trouble, or something close to it. The kind that said, say yes, I dare you. So you did.

Now, you’re half-sprawled on the leather chair in her townhouse studio — an airy, moody room that smells faintly of ink and something expensive, like sandalwood and clean linen. The rain taps against the windows in a lazy rhythm. Music hums from a speaker, something low and slow, bass-heavy and pulsing like a second heartbeat.

You’ve stripped your shirt halfway off, leaving your side exposed where the edge of your waistband dips low. Helena’s perched beside you, sleeves rolled, gloves on, eyes fixed on the blank canvas of your skin. Her hair’s pinned up in that effortless way that somehow makes her more intimidating, and there’s a glint in her expression — part mischief, part focus — like she’s already imagined exactly what she’s going to leave behind.

“You’re sure?” she asks, not because she needs permission, but because she enjoys hearing you give it.

You nod, breath catching when her hand brushes your hip to steady the stencil. “Artistic control,” you repeat, a little shakier this time. “Do whatever you want.”

Helena hums. Smirks. “Darling,” she says, voice dipped in silk and sin, “that was the worst thing you could’ve said.”

The machine buzzes to life, filling the quiet. You feel the first prick — sharp, precise — and your fingers curl into the leather. She glances up once, just to watch your face, then returns to her work like nothing’s sweeter than dragging a needle across your skin.

“Don’t squirm too much,” she murmurs, leaning in close enough for you to feel her breath. “I like it when they last.”

And god help you — so do you.