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“No.” I cut him off. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this. You don’t get to pretend it’s nothing. If you’re mine, you’re mine completely. No leftovers. No old habits. No men who still think they have a claim to even a fraction of your attention. You’re mine, Maksim. You seem to have forgotten.”

His brow lifts, cocky even now.

“Oh, maybe I have, especially after being denied sex for a week.” His voice drops, deliberate. “Maybe it’s time you reminded me who I belong to. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, that’s what we’re doing, huh?” Heat, anger, want, and jealousy collapse into a single current running through me all at once.

I walk him backwards, my hand never leaving his throat, guiding him as you’d guide something you have no intention of ever letting go of. He doesn’t resist; of course he doesn’t. This is exactly what he wanted, what he’s been baiting out of me all along. I don’t stop until the bathroom door is behind us and I’ve turned him to face the mirror, his own reflection staring back at him, flushed and wanting, unmistakably mine.

“You wanted to be reminded,” I say against his ear, voice low, promising. “So let me show you exactly how much of you belongs to me.”

I keep him pinned against the counter, hand still firm around his throat as I reach up with the other and pull my tie loose in one sharp motion. The silk slides free with a quiet hiss. Maksim’s eyes track the movement in the mirror, dark and already heated, his breathing uneven against my palm.

“Hands behind your back,” I command.

He doesn’t move fast enough.

I catch both his wrists, pull them firmly behind him, and bind them with the tie—tight enough that he feels it, tight enough that it’ll hurt the way I know he likes it. The second the knot holds, something in his posture shifts. His back arches almost instinctively, his chest pressing forward, the line of his body curving beautifully against the edge of the counter. Exposed. Held. Exactly where I want him.

“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice low as I unbuckle my belt with one hand, the other still resting heavily on the small of his back. “Arch that back for me. Show me who this ass belongs to.”

“Oh my—”

I pull his boxers down, and my palm connects with his ass in a hard, deliberate slap before he can finish whatever sentence he’s about to form. The sound cracks through the bathroom. He grunts, the sound caught between surprise and pure pleasure, his body jerking forward against the counter. I knead the warm skin, feeling the heat bloom under my hand, then strike the other cheek just as hard.

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers, voice already breaking. “Yes, more Tristan, please—”

“Shut.”

Slap.

“The.”

Slap.

“Fuck.”

Slap.

“Up.”

By the fourth strike, he’s shaking, thighs tense, breath coming in short, desperate pulls. His dick hangs heavy between his legs, dripping steadily onto the tiled floor, a thin string of precum catching the light. He struggles against the tie binding his wrists, the silk pulling taut every time he tries to move, but it only makes him look more wrecked. More mine.

I lean down and drag my mouth across the heated skin of his back, kissing slowly down the curve of his spine until I reach the reddened cheeks. I soothe the marks with my tongue, then my lips, taking my time, letting him feel the contrast between the sting and the care. When I finally spread him open and blow around his hole, his whole body shudders.

I spit against him, watching it slide down, then press a firm, open-mouthed kiss right there.

“Please,” he begs, voice raw, impatient, almost broken. “Please, Tristan. I need you to remind me who I belong to.”

I straighten, grab the lube from the counter, and coat myself thoroughly. My dick is already aching, thick, and more than ready. I drag the head through the mess I’ve made of him, pressing just enough to feel him flutter and clench around nothing.

“Oh, trust me, spitfire,” I say, voice rough with heat and possession as I line myself up. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

I push inside him in one slow, relentless thrust, watching every inch disappear, feeling the tight, scorching heat of him take me until I’m buried to the hilt.

His cry echoes off the marble.

I don’t give him a second to adjust. I pull him up hard, one arm banding across his chest as I haul him back against me and I continue thrusting inside him. His bound hands press between us, the silk of my tie digging into his wrists with every movement. The new angle forces him upright, back flush to my chest, and the mirror in front of us catches everything. The sight nearly undoes me. His flushed face, his parted lips, the way his dick bounces with every deep thrust I drive into him.