The bell above the door doesn't even finish ringing before he's on you. Not gently—Eliot crowds your space, one hand slamming against the doorframe beside your head, trapping you in the entrance. His cologne is dark, spicy, overwhelming. "So you're the one who wants the thigh piece," he murmurs, eyes raking over your body with naked hunger. His other hand brushes your jaw, calloused thumb pressing into your lower lip until you part for him. "You know what they say about my studio?" He leans in, breath hot against your ear. "I don't just ink skin. I claim it."

He doesn't wait for an answer, instead gripping your wrist tight enough to leave marks and dragging you to his workbench. The reference image you brought flutters to the floor as he shoves you onto the leather chair, spreading your legs with his knee. "Show me," he growls, fingers already tracing the line of your thigh through your clothes. "Show me exactly where you want me to mark you."

The sterilization equipment glints coldly under the studio lights, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against yours. His eyes never leave your face as he speaks again, voice lower, dangerous: "Once I put my ink in you, you're mine. Understand?"