"What color is your hair?" she murmured, her thumb following the jagged path.
"Blond," I told her. "Kind of a darker blond."
"And your eyes?"
"Green."
She smiled and moved down. Found the chemical burn on my ribs—a splash of industrial cleaner that had eaten through my suit when I was twenty. Then the circular, smooth brand on my bicep. A cigarette burn. My father’s idea of teaching me focus when I was twelve.
I watched her face, waiting for the disgust. Waiting for her to realize she was standing next to a monster who collected violence like other men collected stamps.
But she didn't pull away. She looked... focused. Like she was reading a map in the dark.
"So many," she breathed, her hand sliding over my stomach, finding the faint line of a bullet graze near my hip. She was memorizing the topography of my history. Every error. Every close call.
My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it. The sensation of her small, soft hands exploring the wreckage of my body was doing things to my head. Making me want to lean into her touch. Making me want to run.
"You cover it up," she said, her hands moving back up to cup my face. Her thumbs brushed my cheekbones, reading the tension there. "You act like none of it matters. Like you're impenetrable."
"It's just skin, Raven. It heals."
"Does it?" She tilted her head, those unseeing eyes staring right through my bullshit. "You want more than this. You want to feel something other than the cold."
"You don't know what I want."
"You're terrified." Her fingers lingered on the pulse jumping in my neck. "You're just afraid?—"
I spun her. Pressed her front against the wall, my body caging hers, my hand wrapping around her throat.
Her pulse hammered against my palm.
"Don't," I said, my voice coming out rough. Raw. "Don't try to fix me. Don't try to dig into whatever fucked-up childhood made me this way. We don't have time for that."
"Milo—"
"We have a week, Raven. One week. Maybe less." My thumb traced the hollow of her throat. "So I don't want to talk about what I want or what I'm afraid of. I want to fuck you until we both forget that Viktor's going to kill you if I can't find the real leak."
Her breath caught. "Then do it."
I released her throat. Turned her around to face me, and fisted her hair instead. Pulling her head back, I brushed my lips against hers.
"Get on your knees."
She dropped. No hesitation. Her hands already reaching for my belt.
I caught her wrists. "No."
Confusion flickered across her face.
"Hands behind your back," I said. "You don't touch. You just take what I give you."
After a moment, she complied, lacing her fingers at the small of her back. The position arched her spine and pushed her breasts forward.
It made her look like an offering.
I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, and freed my cock. It was thick and straining, leaking at the tip, desperate for her.
"Open," I said.
