Her teeth sink into that plush bottom lip, slow, unconscious, the same way she dragged the needle across my ribs for hours. My pulse slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
I drag my thumb across the bite mark she just left, freeing the lip with a soft pop that makes her breath hitch.
“Don’t,” I growl, voice gravel and smoke. “That lip is mine to bruise.” Her pupils swallow the green, lashes fluttering.
“Ghost—”
I swallow the rest of her sentence.
I band one arm around her waist and haul her up until her boots leave the floor and her spine meets the cinder-block wall with a soft thud. My mouth crashes over hers, no warning, no mercy, tongue sliding past her parted lips to claim every corner.
She tastes like cherry cola and the mint gum she chewed to stay awake, and I drink her down like I’ve been starving for years. Her hands fist my shirt, yank me closer, nails scraping my neck hard enough to leave half-moon crescents that will bloom purple by morning.
I angle my head, deepen the kiss, teeth nipping that swollen lip until she whimpers into my mouth. The sound shoots straight to my cock; I grind against her once, letting her feel exactly what hours of her hands on my skin did to me.
She answers with a roll of her hips that makes me groan, low and filthy, the vibration rumbling between our tongues.
I slide my hand into her hair, fist the silky strands, tilt her head exactly where I want it, and lick into her like I’m signing my name inside her soul.
Her knees buckle; I pin her harder to the wall, thigh wedged between hers, feeling the scalding heat of her through two layers of denim. I suck her tongue, bite, soothe with a slow swirl, then dive again, deeper, wetter, until we’re both shaking.
When I finally rip my mouth free, a thin string of saliva snaps between us; I catch it with my thumb and paint it across her lower lip like gloss.
Her eyes are glassy, lips cherry-red and trembling, chest heaving so hard her tits brush my ribs with every inhale.
“That tattoo,” I rasp, voice shredded, “is the sexiest fucking thing anyone’s ever put on my skin.” I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And I’m gonna kiss you like this every time you finish a piece on me, until you forget how to stand without my tongue in your mouth.”
She makes the sweetest broken sound, fingers clawing at my belt like she’s two seconds from dropping to her knees right here on the floor of her bedroom.
I step back, adjust myself with zero shame, and smirk at the way she sways after me. “Pack up, little artist,” I say, voice velvet and venom. “Then come find me. I’m nowhere near done tasting you.” I walk out slowly, boots echoing, but I feel her stare burning between my shoulder blades.
I count to ten. At seven, I hear her door lock and her frantic footsteps chasing me down the hall. I smile to myself.
Worth every single second of needle pain.
23
BONNIE
The ceiling fan makes the same clicking sound on every third rotation.
Click. Whir. Whir. Click. Whir. Whir.
I’ve been listening to it for nearly two weeks straight. Know the pattern by heart now. Could probably fix it if anyone would let me leave this room long enough to find a screwdriver.
But they won’t.
I lie on my back on Ghost’s bed, legs crossed at the ankle, arms spread wide. The fan spins above me, circulating the same stale air I’ve been breathing since Ash decided I was too pregnant and too valuable to risk leaving the compound.
My phone sits on the nightstand. Snake stopped texting after the fifth day. Ran out of things to say when every conversation ended the same way—me stuck inside, him working alone, my clients getting reassigned to other artists.
Mrs. Liu got her cancer survivor piece done by someone else. I saw the photo Snake sent. It was fine. Competent. Nothing special.
I could’ve made it special.
The door opens. Ghost walks in, still wearing his cut, gun holstered at his hip. “You moved,” he says.
“Barely.”
