I owned a bar called Bite Me, had a tiny red chili pepper tattooed on my wrist as a warning label, and was currently being fucked by an actual shark man who had enough manners to ask before putting teeth in my neck.
Life was ridiculous.
I loved that part of it.
“Do it,” I said. “Bite me.”
His teeth closed on the side of my neck.
Not too deep. Not pain exactly. Sharp pressure, hot sting, a claiming little shock that snapped through my whole body and lit me up from the inside.
I came hard.
My thighs clamped around him. My fingers dug into his back. The sound that tore out of me was not polite, not quiet, and not remotely available for staff discussion.
Nico followed me over with my name against my skin and his body locked deep in mine. His cock pulsed inside me, hot and heavy, while his hand braced beside my head and his lips softened around the mark he’d made.
For a while, the only things in the room were breath, sweat, ocean air, and the distant thump of bass from somewhere down the boardwalk.
Then Nico lifted his head.
His eyes found mine.
I refused to look away first.
He touched the skin beside my neck, not the bite itself. “I didn’t break skin.”
“I know.”
“You’re okay?”
I swallowed, then smiled before I could stop myself. “You ask that like I didn’t just try to crack your spine with my thighs.”
A smile almost made it through, but his eyes stayed serious. “I’m asking anyway.”
My fingers tightened in the sheet.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Better than okay. Don’t get emotional about it.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Try harder.”
He kissed me, slow this time, and I let him because my skin was still humming and because I wanted to.
Afterward, he brought me water without being asked.
That was rude.
He also found the other half of my roasted pepper and provolone sandwich, put it on a napkin beside the bed, and looked far too pleased with himself.
I sat up with the sheet tucked under my arms. “Did you just bring me after-sex deli meat?”
“It seemed on-brand.”
“It is. That’s not the issue.”
“What’s the issue?”
