"I grew up in the system too, Alex. Different system. Same rules." His thumb traces a circle on the inside of my wrist, right over the mark. "Don't show them the wound. Show them the scar."
His mouth is near my temple. I can feel his breath in my hair. His arms still around me, his chest against my back, and the warmth between us is shifting — turning into something with an edge.
"Don't look at me like I'm safe," he says. Low. Against my skin.
"Why not?"
His hand leaves my wrist. Finds my jaw. Tilts my face back toward him. His mouth is close enough that I can feel the shape of his words. "I'm not safe and I'm not gentle and the things I want to do to you right now have nothing to do with comfort."
My body knows the difference. Has been waiting for the difference.
"Then don't be gentle," I say.
His mouth finds mine. Slow. His hand on my jaw holding me exactly where he wants me. Every second deliberate. His tongue slides against mine and I make a sound into his mouth and his hand tightens on my jaw.
"Lie back," he says.
I lie back. He follows me down — beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand tracing down my throat. My collarbone. The flat of his palm over my heart, feeling it hammer.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I know."
"Not from fear."
"No. Not from fear."
His hand moves lower. Over my breast through the thin shirt — his thumb finding the peak and circling, slow, watching my face while he does it. I arch into his hand. He keeps that pace, watching me respond, cataloging what makes my breath catch and what makes my hips shift.
"Leo."
"I'm here."
"I need —"
"I know what you need." He pulls my shirt up. Over my head. His mouth replaces his hand — warm, wet, closing around my nipple, and my fingers find the back of his head and grip. He takes his time. One side, then the other. Thorough. Like he's memorizing me.
His hand slides down my stomach. Under the waistband. His fingers find me and the sound he makes against my skin when he feels how ready I am is low and satisfied and possessive.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You. Just you."
He strokes me slow. Two fingers. Finding the rhythm that makes my hips rock into his hand. Patient in a way that's almostcruel — building the tension in increments, pulling back when I get close, his mouth on my throat, the hollow below my ear. Taking his time because he wants me to feel every second of it.
"Leo — please —"
"Not yet." His lips against my ear. "I want you wrecked before I'm inside you."
His fingers press harder. Faster. The rhythm tightens and my back arches and I'm gripping the sheet with one hand and his shoulder with the other and when I come it's deep and slow. A wave that rolls through me from the center outward and leaves me shaking and open and completely undone.
He doesn't stop. His fingers ease down — slower, gentler, drawing out the aftershocks while his mouth presses soft and hot against my neck.
"There," he murmurs. "That's what I wanted."
I pull at his shirt. He strips it. Strips everything. His body is warm and hard against mine and when I reach for him — wrap my hand around him, stroke — his jaw clenches and his hips push forward and the control he's been holding cracks.
He hesitates for one second. Then he's over me — between my thighs, his weight on his forearms, his face above mine. Close enough that his breath is my breath.
