His palms were rough but gentle. Touching everywhere—muscle and scars and places I'd forgotten existed. He traced my collarbone and then the center of my chest down to my stomach.
"Damn," he muttered. "You're—"
I pulled him down onto the bed before he could finish. Landed on top of him—all my weight pinning him to the mattress—and tried not to think about whether I was crushing him.
He didn't seem to mind.
I kissed him deeper, felt his stiff cock pressing against my hip through too many layers. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slid my hands down his back. He was solid and warm and—
"How many fights?" he asked against my mouth.
"Lost count years ago." I kissed along his jaw and his throat. "Does it bother you?"
"No." He traced one of my scars—long, raised, across my left shoulder blade. "Just want to know them. All of you."
The words knocked the breath out of me. I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "That's true?"
"It is."
I kissed him slower, trying to memorize the shape of his mouth and the small whimpering sounds he made. My hand slid down the light, hairy trail on his belly.
My fingers closed around the button of his jeans. He grunted softly—then my ribs screamed, like my body had been waiting for the worst possible moment to turn on me.
I tried to shift my weight and hide it, but the movement made it worse. Sharp pain lanced through my left side where Desrosiers had caught me yesterday. Where I'd hit the boards wrong during demo. I'd been pretending it didn't hurt for the last six hours.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Hog."
"It's fine." I shifted again. Pain flared white-hot.
He sat up, forcing me to do the same. "Where?"
"It's nothing. Just old—" I pressed my hand to my ribs. "Desrosiers got me yesterday. Then again today during demo. It's fine."
He reached out, carefully touching the spot. I flinched.
"Damn."
"It's not that bad."
"You're lying on top of me with broken ribs—"
"They're not broken. Just bruised." Probably. Maybe. I hadn't exactly gone to medical.
"You should've said something."
I looked away. "I didn't want to stop."
He touched my face, gripped my chin, and made me look at him. "We're not stopping because I don't want to. We're stopping because you're hurt."
"It's fine. I can—"
"Hog." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere. This—us—it's not disappearing if we don't do it right now."
"What if it does?"
