Annoying.
Because part of me can see it too clearly—black ink against skin, hidden and intimate and his in a way that makes something stupid in my body tighten.
I shove that thought away immediately.
“No.”
His eyes flick over my face, reading too much. “You thought about it.”
“I thought about how psychotic you sound.”
A short laugh leaves him. Real enough to warm his mouth for half a second.
Then it’s gone.
“You let me inside you,” he says, voice lower now, roughened by drink and the kind of mood that never really leaves him. “But under your skin is where you draw the line?”
I hold his stare.
“Yes.”
His thumb stills on my hip.
The room feels quieter all of a sudden. The city beyond the windows is still there, breathing in the dark, but in here it’s just him over me, his body heat, his hand, his eyes going that dangerous pale kind of unreadable.
“My skin is mine, Maksim.”
The words come out calm. I make sure they do.
Because this matters more than the filthy little thrill trying to spark under my ribs. More than the way he’s touching me like he’s already picturing it. More than the vodka warmth loosening my limbs and making everything feel a little softer around the edges than it should.
Mine.
He hears it.
I know he does because something in his face closes. Not anger exactly. Worse.
Acceptance.
The kind that doesn’t soothe me at all.
For a second he says nothing. Just looks at me like he’s filing the words away somewhere deep and private, where all his ugliest thoughts go to sharpen their teeth.
Then he bends lifting my leg and presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh.
A slow kiss. Open-mouthed. Distracting.
I exhale through my nose and hate that my body arches for him anyway.
“Possessive asshole,” I mutter.
He hums against myskin, amused.
“Da.”
His hand slides up under the shirt, warm palm flattening over my stomach. He drags his mouth higher, stopping just before he gets what he wants.
“Would you hate it?” he asks.
