It never has.
Pain has always motivated me.
It's why I loved getting tattoos—the burn of the needle, the way it hurt and felt good at the same time.
Pain is pleasure.
And right now, I want both.
I throw the blanket off slowly, carefully.
My body protests—ribs screaming, muscles stiff—but I push through it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet.
I move toward him, each step deliberate.
One.
Then another.
When I reach the chair, I stop.
Just for a moment.
Just to look at him.
This man saved me.
But why?
Does he want something in return?
He hasn't asked.
But all men are like that, aren't they?
They wait.
They bide their time.
And then they take.
But even as I thinkit, I don't believe it.
Not about him.
I reach out and touch his face.
My fingertips graze his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath them.
The scruff is coarse, masculine, real.
His eyes open slowly.
Dark.
