The sound that tears out of him is raw, almost painful.
I stick out my tongue, keep my eyes on him. His body jerks. His cock swells, and then hot streaks spill out of him, hitting my chest, my throat, and my tongue.
He says something in Russian, voice lower now, almost broken.
He presses his mouth onto my skin, licks down my neck, over my chest, cleaning up every drop he left behind on my skin. The way his tongue drags across my ribs makes my entire body jolt. When he finally comes back up, he kisses me hard, making me taste the both of us on his tongue.
He drops beside me and pulls off his jeans and throws them onto the floor. He lies bare against the sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I glance over at him and let myself really look. His chest is still rising and falling, covered in tattoos all the way down to hisstomach. Some are texts in Russian, but most are just scattered pieces, like a patchwork collage burned into his skin. There’s barely an inch of him that isn’t inked.
I follow the trail down his torso, across the ridges of his abs, then lower to his thighs.
His legs are fully covered too, ankles and feet, all of it black ink against pale skin.
My eyes catch on the tattoo over his heart: an eight-point star with skulls shaded through the middle. Out of all of them, this one sticks out the most because he has the same stars on his ring.
There has to be over a hundred tattoos on him, and I can’t wrap my head around the amount of pain that took. How many hours he must’ve sat through getting them, how long he’s been collecting all that ink like armor.
He glances at me. “See something you like?”
I blink, caught staring. “Why do you have so many tattoos?”
He’s like a literal work of art next to me with his abs and all the tattoos and muscles.
And then there’s me. I have no tattoos, no defined muscles, kind of skinny, just nothing special about my appearance.
I’ve never really cared before, but right now it hits different, lying here naked next to him, letting him see all of me. Insecurity sinks into my chest. He could be with anyone he wanted, and somehow, he’s here with me. It doesn’t make sense.
“I was bored,” he finally says.
“You were bored so you tattooed your entire body?” I scrunch my nose. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Nyet. It’s like meditation. Pain feels good.”
So he’s a slightly insane Russian masochist then. Got it.
He shifts onto his side and looks straight at me, his hand coming up to my chin slowly, lifting it just enough so I meet his gaze directly.
I brush my thumb over the tattoo under his eye.???????? ? ????????. Cyrillic letters I can’t read.
“What does this mean?”
“It means true loyalty doesn’t need words. Family motto. We all have it tattooed somewhere. A reminder of what we are. What we owe.”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around it.
“Kelly.”
The way he says my name sounds like he’s about to tell me this was a mistake.
“Do you remember what I told you at the club? That my family owns it and that the truth is always much worse.”
“Yes.”
He swallows hard. “You’re mine,” he says. “But my family has rules. If my father discovers I’m with a man, I won’t survive it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, suddenly parched.
