I don’t flinch.
Royal leans in, his chest a wall of heat against my bare back, his mouth close to my ear.
“If you’re playing me Becki,” he says, voice a low growl vibrating through me, “say it now.”
I don’t speak.
He exhales a sound that’s half-relief, half-possession.
His hand spreads over my hip, steadying me.
And then the knife presses in.
A slow, deliberate slice.
Sharp enough to make my breath punch out of me.Shallow enough that it’s pain and pleasure braided tight.
Royal drags the blade downward, curving gently, his breath shaking against my shoulder.
He’s not carving a line.
He’s shaping a letter.
An R.
His initial.
His ownership.
His confession.
The sting is clean and electric.My whole body shivers, not away from him, into him.Then he continues, carving the rest of his name.I blink as the room spins.The pain is too much and then not ever enough.I bare it and want more.
I think of Legend’s name in my thigh that I carved myself.This erases it.Maybe not from my body.But from my very soul.
Blood beads instantly, warm rivers sliding down my lower back.Royal’s thumb presses into my hip harder, holding me steady while the knife traces the last stroke.
When he’s done, he stands still behind me.I feel his chest rising, falling, uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together.
I whisper, “Royal…”
He drops the knife.
It hits the floor with a metallic clang that echoes through the concrete.
His hands grab my waist, pull me back against him like he needs the contact to breathe.His forehead presses to the wound he just carved.
And then…
His tongue touches my skin.
A choked gasp escapes me.I can’t hold it back.
Royal groans, low and wrecked, as he licks the first line of the R.His tongue ring drags against the fresh cut, cold metal against raw heat, and the sensation sends a violent tremor through my entire body.
He tastes my blood like it’s something holy.
Something earned.
