"Not that hard," had been the edict. The makeup people will give us hell. It'll be noticed, and they'll ask or just joke, 'cause they know we don't pull girls, hell, they've gotten that far in their observations of us, so be careful, okay? And Dom had nodded, and held back even though it was hard, because he wanted Billy so hard and so fast that going slow or soft was very nearly impossible.

So Dom remembers the night he let it happen easily, because Billy was shaking and sweaty under him, legs hooked over his shoulders, hair in his eyes, and he was giving the occasional desperate whimper. And Dom leaned down and bit a patch of skin between his teeth, eliciting a hiss, and then soothed it with a slow suck—the pressure crescendos tellingly, and Billy was writhing, his thighs shaking, toes curling, to far gone to remind Dom not to leave a mark.

The morning after, when the makeup people hem and haw, and Dom watches Billy with a level, predatory stare and thinks Mine, Billy finds himself not caring. For the first time in his life, he wants to be owned.