I stroked her hair, kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat wild.
I watched her breathe, watched her chest rise and fall, and thought: this is mine now.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, and for the first time I saw it—trust. Not just want, not just need. She trusted me to keep her like this, whole and safe, even when I took her apart.
I wanted to say thank you, but it felt too small.
Instead I kissed her again, and let it say everything.
She didn’t move for a long time. Just let me hold her, let me kiss the sweat off her temple and the salt of her tears, both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon. But when she did move, it was deliberate—her hands at my shoulders, pushing me back just a few inches, so she could look at me.
She smiled, a slow, dangerous thing. “Now you,” she said.
I didn’t play coy. I wanted this. Needed it. She sat up, hair in her face, chest flushed and still heaving. She pulled herself onto her knees and reached for the hem of my shirt, fingers trembling but certain.
She peeled it up, slow. I could feel her eyes on my skin as every inch was exposed: the old bruises, the hard lines at my ribs, the tattoo curling around my left side. She studied it all, no hurry, like she was committing it to memory.
When she got to the buttons at my collar, she stopped. With both hands, she cupped my face. She ran her thumbs over the arch of my eyebrow, found the scar that split it. She bent in and kissed it, soft, her lips warm against the old broken skin. It made something in my chest stutter.
She didn’t say anything about it, didn’t ask how or why. She just kissed the mark, slow, both eyes open. Then she trailed down, hands following, until she got to my sternum.
She yanked the shirt loose, dragging it off my shoulders. I helped, uncoiling my arms, letting her see the rest. She stared at my chest, then at the line of scar tissue that tracked from my navel up toward my ribs—a long, ugly thing that never faded, courtesy of Catania. She put her hand on it, ran her fingers up and down, as if she could read the story in Braille.
She looked up, then knelt back, lifting my undershirt, mouth open just a bit. She pressed her lips to the scar, starting at the lowest point and working up, kissing every inch of it. It was likebeing exorcised, like she could suck out the memory and leave me clean.
She didn’t stop at the end. She found the tattoo I’d gotten to cover the worst of it—a string of Sicilian, black and sharp, curling over my ribs. She traced the lines with her tongue, then kissed the ink, lips pressed hard.
I wanted to say something, but my throat locked.
She unbuttoned my pants, hands slow, fingers fumbling at first but steady. She stripped me, careful, pushing the waistband down and off, boxers with it. I was already hard as fuck, straining against the fabric, but she didn’t reach for it yet.
She looked up at me, hair hanging in her face, eyes huge. I tried to look back, but the weight of what she was doing knocked something loose in my head. I felt raw. Flayed open.
“Daddy you’re the most perfect thing.” She eyed my cock. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Anything so delicious.”
My cock throbbed, eager for attention.
She bit her lip, eyes still on mine. “I want to taste you,” she said. “I see you.”
I had to close my eyes.
She pulled me forward, flat on the bed, then climbed over me, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, nothing between us. The heat of her skin was unreal.
She kissed me, slow, then faster. She ran her hands over every inch of me—shoulders, ribs, hips. She didn’t flinch at the scars, didn’t hesitate at the places other girls tried to avoid. She mapped me like she was the first explorer, and I was brand new.
She pulled me down over her, wrapped both arms around my neck, and locked her thighs around my waist.
When I was finally pressed to her, nothing between us, I thought: No one has ever loved me like this.
Not once, not ever.
She kissed me until I forgot my name, until the only thing I could hear was the pounding of her heart against my chest and the blood rushing in my own head. Her hands were everywhere—shoulders, ribs, hips, lower. When she touched my cock, she hesitated for half a second, then wrapped her hand around it, like she’d done it every day of her life.
I was seconds from losing it, but I didn’t rush. I let her hands wander, let her lips and eyes take inventory of every scar and muscle and nerve ending I’d ever had. She went at me with an explorer’s curiosity, not hesitating at the places where other girls had lingered too long or not enough. Every touch from her was a new question, every moan the answer. I couldn’t remember ever being looked at this way. Not even once.
She rolled onto her back, keeping me close, sheets a disaster under our knees. I braced on my elbows, caging her in, my body a barrier between her and the world. Her hands clung to my shoulders, nails in deep but not hurting—just marking, claiming. She opened her legs, thighs wide, inviting me to fill the space she made for me.
I lined myself up, slow, savoring the moment. I pressed the tip inside her, watched her face: her eyes went huge, then squeezed shut, then snapped wide open again. She stared at me, unblinking, like she needed to see what would happen next. I went in deeper, slow as I could, the tight heat of her nearly making me black out. I stopped, bottomed out, breathing hard against her cheek, letting us both adjust.
