His room was bathed in a soft, half-golden light, the vinyl record spinning in the background. You were sitting on the edge of his bed, only in a wide T-shirt - his, of course - and with that sparkle in your eyes that made Will lose his mind.

He passed by you with that king of the world’s own walk, open shirt, messy hair, and tongue between his teeth when he smiled.

“You’re hiding something,” he said, standing between his legs, with his hands on his bare thighs. “I’ve been looking at that mysterious face of yours since you arrived.”

You bit your lip, tilting your face, as if you were considering something dangerous.

“Maybe I am.”

“Is it something I can see?” He provoked, dragging his fingers down the side of his thigh.

“If you ask right...” you whispered, the challenge dancing in your gaze.

His eyes narrowed. A second later, Will pushed you back slightly, laying you on the bed with that firm and reverent touch that only he had. He climbed on top of you, his body heavy, hot.

“Show me.”

You slowly lifted the bar of the T-shirt. Just enough. On the side of the crotch, delicate, dark red, it was tattooed: “W.G. III”.

Tiny. Intimate. Yours.

He froze for a second, as if the whole world had been silenced. Then, his jaw locked, his breathing failed, and his eyes darkened.

“You...?” The voice came out low, hoarse. “Did you tattoo my initials... there?”

You nodded, without saying anything, but with that provocative little smile on your lips.

He ran his fingertips slowly over the newly tattooed skin, almost with reverence, as if that mark was sacred.

“You have no idea what you just did to me,” he growled, his lips dangerously close to the tattoo.

“Yes, I did,” you whispered. “That’s exactly why I did it.”

Will laughed low, almost cynical, before sliding his mouth to the marked place.

“Now this is mine,” he said, between hot and possessive kisses. “And you too.”