I slid my hand down, captured his, and brought it up to my cheek. “Then help me make new marks,” I said. “Ones we choose. Ones that say I belong to you, not to them.”
He looked at me, and the thing in his eyes was dark, and wanting, and so damn alive I thought my chest would crack open from the force of it. His thumb brushed the last yellowed bruise on my cheekbone. He didn’t say anything, but I knew what he meant.
I licked my lips, heart thundering, and said, “You want to go back to bed?”
For once, he didn’t argue. He just carried me, careful as always, into the house. The box sat on the bench, sunlight catching the name carved into the lid. Proof that some things could never be taken.
Not from us.
Quiad carried me over the threshold like we were a cliché and he secretly loved it. I wrapped my arms around his neck and tried to look smug instead of overwhelmed.
He didn’t let me go until we were in the bedroom, which was still a mess—blankets half on the floor, sheets twisted from my restless sleep and his late-night insomnias.
Sunlight poured through the curtains, golden as syrup, lighting up the little dust motes in the air. It felt like the inside of a memory, or maybe the inside of a hope.
He set me on the edge of the bed, and I sprawled back, letting the old mattress bow under my weight. He just stood there for a second, looking at me, hands fisted at his sides. I could see the hunger on his face, raw and a little scared.
“You okay?” he asked, low and gruff.
I stretched, arching my back until the twinge in my ribs sharpened, then faded. “Are you going to take your shirt off or should I start a petition?”
He snorted, but the smile was real this time. He peeled the shirt over his head, slow, the motion pulling every line of muscle tight across his chest. I watched the tattoos ripple—McKenzie sigils, a wolf’s head, the jagged scar under his clavicle that he called his “first badge of honor.” He tossed the shirt in the corner and leaned in, bracing both hands on the mattress on either side of my hips.
“You want me to stop, you say so,” he said.
I pulled him down until he hovered over me, then kissed him hard enough to leave both of us breathless. “You start, and I’ll finish,” I said.
He laughed, this time for real, and the sound shook through both of us. He kissed me—open-mouthed, biting at the corner of my lip where it was still healing. He was careful not to make me bleed, but not so careful I felt breakable.
His hands—big, blunt, calloused—slid under my shirt, palm flat to my ribs, warming the ache instead of making it worse. He thumbed the line of my scar, then drifted down, slow, until his fingers found the waistband of my shorts.
He glanced up, a question in his eyes. I nodded, and he tugged them down, careful of the sticky tape the doctor put over the bruised bone. He paused to kiss just above the bruise, the air gone soft and warm where his breath hit my skin. His beard scratched, but I liked the way it felt—real, grounding.
He slid me further up the bed, then knelt between my legs, letting his eyes roam every inch. The way he looked at me—like he was memorizing the map of my body for the next time we were separated—made me shiver.
His hands trailed over my thighs, rough from sanding but gentle as silk. He bent down and kissed my knee, then the inside of my thigh, then higher. When he mouthed over my cock, I jerked, and he grinned, catching the tip between his lips before letting go.
“Impatient,” he murmured.
“Always,” I managed, hips already rocking up for more.
He leaned forward, tongue tracing a line from the base of my cock to the head. He circled it, slow, and I watched the movement of his jaw, the play of shadow and light over his face. He took me deeper, just enough to draw a moan from my throat, then pulled back and licked the sensitive underside, teasing me until I was leaking onto his tongue.
He drew it out, the rhythm maddening—just enough friction, never enough to finish. His hands kneaded my ass, spreading me open, then slipping a finger inside. I gasped, feeling the stretch, and he murmured, “Good?” against the head of my cock.
“So good,” I said, voice gone desperate.
He sat back, fumbling for the lube and the condom in the drawer. He tore the foil, rolled it on with one hand, slicked himself up, then looked down at me, waiting for the go-ahead.
I spread my legs wider, and he lined up, hands braced on either side of my hips. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, the burn giving way to a fullness that made my head spin.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and steel at once.
He started moving, shallow at first, watching my face for any sign of pain. When I bucked up, needing more, he gave it—long strokes, smooth and perfect. The bed creaked, and the air filled with the sounds of bodies and breath.
I locked my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He buried his face in my neck, teeth grazing my skin, one hand sliding up to tweak my nipple until I writhed under him.
“Say it,” I gasped.
