I grab his face and drag his mouth back to mine. The kiss turns messier, wetter, more desperate. His hands slide under my sweater and the feel of his palms on my bare skin makes me shiver.
His hands slide down to my ass and I wince when his fingers brush one of the welts.
He freezes immediately.
“Shit.” He pulls back. “I forgot—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” His jaw tightens and he takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “I hurt you last night and now I’m grabbing you like I don’t remember exactly where the marks are.”
“Roman—”
“We need rules.” He’s pacing now, restless energy rolling off him in waves. “I should have done this before. Before I ever laid a hand on you.”
“Rules?”
“Colors.” He stops pacing and turns to face me. “Green means keep going. Everything’s fine, I want more, don’t stop. Yellow means slow down—I’m approaching a limit but I haven’t hit it yet. Red means stop. Everything stops. Immediately.”
“Traffic lights.” I stare at him. “You want me to use traffic lights.”
“During everything.” He moves closer, his expression deadly serious. “When I touch you. When things get intense. When your brain short-circuits and you can’t form sentences.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Because next time I might not stop.”
The words hang between us.Next time.
“And if I say red and you don’t stop?”
“Then you use the safeword.” He looks around. “Glas.”
I search his face for the lie. I don’t find one.
“Green,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Right now. This.” I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back toward me. “Green.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper. His hands are more careful when they grip my hips, avoiding the bruises, avoiding the welts. When his fingers brush close to one of the marks, he pauses.
“Color?”
“Green.”
He keeps going.
The kiss builds again, heat pooling low in my belly as his mouth moves down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer, grinding against the hard length of him through our clothes.
“Anya.” My name comes out rough, strained. “We should stop.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.” His forehead drops against mine, his breathing ragged. “But I’m about thirty seconds from fucking you on this lab bench and I don’t think either of us is ready for that.”
“Maybe I’m ready.”
“You’re not.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black. “When I fuck you, I want you rested and fed and fully present. Not exhausted and running on adrenaline.”
“That’s—”
