“I’m not going to carve your thigh. I’m going to be inside you while I carve my mark into your chest.”
Inside me?
I blink hard, and my knees fall closed, my fingers stilling. Instantly, recognition passes over his face, and sadness falls over both of us like a blanket.
He shakes his head, dropping everything in his hands, and pushes my knees open. “I’m going to be right up next to you, my cock sliding against your pussy, just like we did the first time I made you come. The first time you made me come. Not inside you. Okay?”
I nod. He drops little bites up my inner thigh, keeping his eyes on me until he gets to the orchid he carved into me years ago. Then he drags the tip of his tongue along the ridges of myscar. A shiver rolls through me. My knees part as my eyes close. His mouth inches closer and closer to my pussy, and I let my legs fall open wide.
Pressing my thighs open with a bruising grip, he adopts a light touch with his tongue, gently flicking over my clit until I moan. When he switches to long, languid strokes, I reach for him, threading my fingers through his hair.
Against my pussy, he makes an “mmmm” noise. “I can taste how you came for me, sweet girl, how hard you made me come.
I moan again and grind against his face. “Make me come again, Tommy.”
He moves his thumb to my clit, rubbing around it in circles as he licks my pussy. He’s careful not to push inside me—not with his fingers, not with his tongue—and I relax, wrapping my legs around his head and bucking my hips against him.
When I come, I come hard, forgetting everything: where we are, where we’ve been, the challenges that lay ahead.
I’m still shaking when he slides himself up my body, positioning his cock against my pussy, now slick with my cum. His knife glints in the light, and little whimpering sounds come out of me when he begins to cut. It stings, but he’s swift, using a light touch, thrusting against me in between strokes. The pain from the knife bleeds into the sweet warmth of his cock, and I spread my arms and legs wide, letting him claim me.
Blood trickles down my chest, and he laps it up. He’s an artist, a master with his tools: his knife, his cock, my body.
When he finishes, he and I both stare down at his handiwork, dark red blood beading up and dripping on my tits. He doesn’t wipe it up, and neither do I. My tits bounce as he thrusts against me, his cock hitting my clit at just the right pressure.
“Tommy!” I throw my head back against the pillow as I come again, my new carving burning my chest. He follows, his cum wetting my stomach as he groans, kissing me hard.
When he stills, he slides down, resting his head on my stomach. I look down at the lightning bolt he carved for me with wispy, disconnected lines and sigh contentedly, running my fingers through his hair.
It’s perfect.
36
Giovanna
Sun cracks through the curtains, bright and unfiltered, the last bit of fall warmth cutting through the growing winter chill.
I lie in bed naked, the sheets tangled around my hips, missing Tommy. He left hours ago for the Edge, and I have the day to myself. I told Tommy I was going to spend the day with my mother, but he was so worried about me getting there and back safely, that I let it go. My new plan: try to pretend that my life is normal for just one day.
For the first time in a long time, I feel calm, centered. It’s a feeling that I haven’t had in years, not just since the kidnapping.
Not since before everything fell apart—since Tommy and I were first together—have I felt this at peace. Even after we reconnected last New Year’s Eve, everything’s been chaos. Living with Antonio again was pure torture, especially once he realized I was sneaking around with Tommy every chance I got. Thenplanning a wedding with Antonio while dreaming of marrying Tommy—it felt like a cruel joke.
Now I’ve come full circle, back with Tommy, sharing the same bed, sharing our lives. I’m finally where I’m supposed to be.
The sound of the front door opening makes me jump. It’s too early for Tommy to be home. I glance at the clock, listening.
Two voices drift down the hall, a man and a woman. My stomach tightens, and I scramble out of bed, pulling open the nightstand drawer as quietly as possible. Snatching the gun Tommy gave me, I hold it by my side and listen.
The woman’s Irish accent hits me first, lilting and familiar. It’s Una.
The man’s voice comes next—my father’s.
I freeze. What the hell aretheydoing here?
I pull on Tommy’s hoodie, sliding my gun into the big front pocket, and edge down the hall.
“—I didn’t plan this! How could I?” Una’s voice rises, high and defensive.
