My name in her mouth is church and violence. A prayer soaked in sin. A bullet dipped in longing.
I press my lips to her jaw, then lower, trailing slow, reverent kisses down her throat.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper against her skin.
She doesn’t breathe.
“But you are,” I continue, fingers tracing the line where the hoodie slips from her shoulder. “You always come when I’m at my worst.”
Her voice trembles. “Maybe I’m just stupid.”
“No,” I murmur. “You’re just mine.”
I tug the zipper down — slow, painfully slow — revealing the thin ribbed tank clinging to her body like a crime waiting to happen.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Of course she fucking isn’t.
Her nipples harden instantly in the cool air, and I stop breathing altogether, staring like a man starved, crawling through war zones and finding the only clean thing left on earth.
“You’re unreal,” I breathe. “You know that?”
“You said I felt real,” she whispers.
“You do. But you also feel like punishment.”
Her jaw tightens. “Then punish me.”
That snaps something in me.
I grab her face, kiss her like I’m never coming back from this — because I’m not. There’s no version of me that walks away from her twice.
I lower her onto the couch — careful, reverent, like she’s fragile even though I’m the one breaking apart.
She arches beneath me, breath staggering when my hands find her waist and drag that little tank over her head.
The hoodie falls. The tank drops.
She is perfect.
Fucking perfect.
“Look at me,” I whisper, kneeling between her thighs. “I want to see your eyes when I wreck you.”
She lifts her chin — fire behind her lashes.
My butterfly.
The kind that doesn’t flutter.
The kind that bites.
I kiss down her chest, over her ribs, lower and lower until she’s trembling beneath me.
“Dax…”
“I know, baby. I know.”
