It fucks with my head more than it should.
Jealousy is not my thing. I do not get territorial over girls I have no intention of keeping.
I rock against her once, letting the heat build instead of chasing it. I don’t rush; I let it simmer.
All I feel is Lola beneath me. I kiss her as if I’m trying to memorize her instead of devouring her.
That’s new and it’s fucking dangerous.
My hips press forward again, and this time she responds by grinding into me with a quiet sound that burns through my chest. It would be easy to lose control, to let this become frantic, rough, and familiar.
That’s what I excel at. But I don’t want this to be familiar. I want it to be different.
I pull away from the kiss before it gets frantic. Before I become that guy I hate and have always been.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing heavily, cock still throbbing between us, my body desperate to finish what it began.
But I stay, choosing her over the high.
Her breath brushes my lips. Soft. Warm. She doesn’t rush me. She simply watches me.
I sit up on my knees and pull my hoodie over my head, bringing my shirt along with it.
The cold hits instantly. Goosebumps rise on my skin as the air bites in. I throw the clothes aside without looking, not caring where they land.
My pulse races, but my head is clear.
I glance down at her. Her eyes are fixed on my chest. On the ink.
The word hope sits there in rough black letters, crooked in spots, done at some backyard tattoo joint that charged me a joint and called it a deal. It’s not clean or impressive. It serves as areminder of a version of me that believed carving that word into my skin might make it stick.
I watch her swallow.
Slowly, she lifts her hands. Her fingers are warm against my chest as she touches the tattoo carefully, as if they mean more than I’ve ever let on. Her fingertips follow the edges of the ink, lingering over the H, followed by the O, then the P, and finally, the E.
It is such a small thing, but the way she touches it makes my breath shift.
“Hope,” she whispers softly.
She speaks of it as if it’s fragile, like it could break if mishandled.
She looks up at me, which causes me to swallow.
I have never shown anyone this tattoo before. It has always been mine, something I kept hidden under layers of fabric, attitude, and bad decisions. It’s something I could glance at in the mirror when the world felt like it was against me.
It wasn’t about being poetic. It’s a reminder that there is hope out there, that one day it might actually be mine.
Hope for a fresh start. For a new damn life where I am more than the screw-up pushed aside. More than the guy people expect to fuck up. And so much more than the asshole with a hard cock and no follow-through.
She traces the word again, slower this time, her fingertip pressing into the ink as if she is trying to grasp its meaning.
“You believe in that?” she asks quietly.
I let out a breath that fogs faintly in the cold air.
“Some days,” I admit.
Her hand remains on my chest, warm against my cold skin, resting over the word as if she is guarding it. And for the first time, I don’t consider myself foolish for having it there.
