The first three days were pure torment.

Every shirt felt like sandpaper. Every accidental brush of fabric against the new metal sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to my clit. I had followed the aftercare instructions obsessively—saline sprays, clean hands, no touching—but my body still treated the piercings like live wires. At night I lay on my back, shirt pushed up, staring at the silver bars through swollen, flushed nipples, and tried not to think about gray eyes and black gloves.

Tyler came over on the fourth night.

I had planned it carefully. Dim lights. His favorite beer. I stripped slowly, watching his face as I revealed the jewelry for...