Her breasts bounced beautifully and I couldn’t resist palming them. Moaning, she leaned forward, giving me better access to her tits while still taking care of herself.
God, she was perfect. “Fuck,” I hissed as she increased the pace, slamming her hips down onto mine. She ran her hands up my stomach, digging her nails into my pecs, and that lick of pain hurt so fucking good.
Gasping, she lay down on top of me, her beautiful hair splayed across my face and her breasts pressed against my chest. I grabbed her ass, taking more control of the pressure and pace.
“Liam… damn it, Liam, you feel so good. Oh… God.”
She clenched around me, and I knew she was just as close to coming as I was. Still, I didn’t want this to end.
I wanted to hold this moment in place. Freeze it before reality caught up with us.
I wrapped my arms around her tightly, and she bit my shoulder.
She moaned my name until we shattered together in an orgasm so intense it would be impossible to ever, ever forget.
We came back to reality slowly, panting heavily in each other’s arms as our hearts raced from the exhilaration of it all. I traced the soft skin of her arm as I held onto this moment for dear life. Nothing would ever be the same for me again.
The air had gone quiet. Not the tense quiet that lived between people who didn’t know what to say, but the softer kind that settled after something powerful had already been communicated.
Zoey lay sprawled across my chest, her weight warm and solid on me. My arm rested on her back, my palm spread across the narrow span of her waist.
The world outside the apartment might as well have disappeared.
Her blue hair was everywhere. Across my shoulder. Tangled along my collarbone. Strands brushing my jaw when she moved slightly. I didn’t mind it all.
I hadn’t realized how much tension still lived in my body until she slowly, curiously, traced the tips of her fingers along the center of my chest, following the faint scar tissue there I had long since stopped noticing.
I stilled.
Zoey noticed immediately. She stopped tracing, then continued, but this time, her touch was lighter, slower, as she followed the path of the mark downward, the pad of her finger brushing lightly over the uneven skin.
“Are all of these from the same incident?” she asked.
I brushed a kiss over the top of her head. “They’re old.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Her fingers moved again, mapping the next scar. The movement was almost absentminded, the way someone might trace patterns on a page while thinking.
Except she wasn’t thinking about anything else.
“They’re all pretty much the same story. Punishment in the name of growth.”
Her shoulders tensed. “I don’t like them.”
“They’re not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She raised her head, resting her chin on my chest. There was something sharp in her expression now. Something fierce and protective that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.
Her fingers slid along another scar near my ribs. “I want to make whoever put these here pay,” she said quietly.
The words were calm, matter of fact.
Zoey didn’t say things lightly.
I studied her face for a moment. “Zoey.”
Her thumb brushed the scar again. “They hurt you.”
