Sweeney's mind didn't register it as ownership, it was a category of its own, the one into which he placed her and his razors. Somewhere encompassing ownership, deep trust, and powerful desire all rolled into one without a hint of love. In earlier times, he might have loved her. He might have doted upon her like a child would his mother, and romanced her as any good Victorian man did to the woman they called theirs. Those days, however, had long passed him by. And the safest thing anyone could be was in that category with his razors, so she was lucky.
His fingers traced back up her body as he led the way to his bedroom, walking backwards so he could continue to tease. Once there, he slipped away from her, wrapped his hand around her wrist, and spun her onto the bed. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it aside towards the wastebin before dropping himself beside her, kissing her once more. His mind was on nothing but claiming her skin, her body, her very essence just then. He wanted her more than he wanted death to come to every person who'd thought he was a mere tale. He wanted to show her that he would never consider any other woman so beautiful, so perfect, so very, very his.