Page 113 of The Ruin I Chose

When the fabric of his shirt parted, I froze.

A tattoo stretched across the left side of his chest, just above the heart—a quiet masterpiece etched into skin.

At its centre, a pair of eyes stared out from a fragment of weathered stone. My eyes, captured in ink and memory. The lashes were soft, the lids heavy with knowing. Around them, olive branches curved gently, forming the silhouette of an anchor—not rigid, but organic, as if nature itself had chosen to hold him still. Two birds circled the anchor—one rising, one looping back—drawn in delicate motion. Above it all, in slanted cursive, a vow hovered like breath:

I’ll choose you today, tomorrow, and for eternity.

And beneath it, in bold script: In aeternum tuus.

It wasn’t just a tattoo. It was a confession. I traced the script, fingers trembling.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

He looked at me, voice low. “Forever yours.”

“These?” I asked, tracing the eyes.

“Your eyes—my compass.”

I stood there, undone in the quiet, the moment already carved into me. The words lodged too deep for sound. My breath caught and my chest felt heavy. He kissed a tear that escaped my eye with a kiss.

“I want you near my heart always, la mia metà,” he said.

“What’s that? Mia metà?”

He rubbed his nose against mine. “My better half.”

That was enough—more than enough. I didn’t need anything else. The meaning sank somewhere deep beneath my ribs—past fear, past doubt—steady and irrevocable.

Whatever walls I still carried eased, one by one. I stayed silent, breathing him in, trusting the quiet to say the rest.

Then I traced his jaw, throat, the curve of his shoulder. Like I was mapping my way back. I kissed him, pulling him closer, wanting to become one with him. I kissed his neck, then chest—the tattoo, then circled my tongue over his nipple slowly. He groaned as I tugged it gently between my teeth. A sound I’d missed. A sound that made me crazier for him.

“I love how you moan,” I whispered against his lips.

He grabbed my hair, tilting my head as his other hand found my neck and grabbed it gently. He kissed me deep, pushing his tongue to the back of my throat. I let him in, circling his tongue with mine, groaning against his mouth as I twirled his nipples between my fingers.

Then I brought him to the mirror and fell to my knees. I wanted him to watch me as my mouth worshipped him. I unbuckled his belt, slowly unzipped his trousers, and pulled them down along with his trunks. His erection sprang out and twitched. I had almost forgotten how big he was, but my body hadn’t forgotten how he felt inside and responded instantly.

I circled the tip with my tongue, tasting him—salt, heat, want. Then I slid him into my mouth, slow and deep, until he hit the back of my throat. My throat was sure to be hurting tomorrow, but I didn’t care. I wanted to feel him, taste him, love him.

I started moving my hand in rhythm with my head, bobbing down his shaft. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking him hard, my throat tightening around him as I fought to take more. I reached between his legs, smacking his ass cheeks, teasing his skin, cupping his sack slowly.

“Baby,” he said, voice strained. “I don’t want to come so soon.”

I could see through our reflection in the mirror that his head was thrown back, one hand fisting my hair. I looked up. His eyes met mine. I turned slightly, catching his darkened gaze in the mirror. I wanted him to see me taking him in. The way I wanted him. Watching himself through me.

“Fuck, Roxy,” he groaned. “That’s… so… hot.”

I didn’t slow down. I wanted to taste him. He held my head, pushing himself deeper into me. He groaned, spilling into me—hot, heavy, undone. I held him there, breath caught, throat full. His body trembled above me. He pulled me up, kissed me deep.

“I taste so fucking good on you,” he whispered against my lips.

I smiled, letting him peel my blouse off, until I was standing there in my bra. His fingers skimmed my skin like memory returning. Every touch felt deliberate, unhurried, as though this moment. I remained quiet, held by the weight of his gaze—steady, intent, sharpening as more of me was revealed.

His breath caught when he saw the lace. Like he’d been starving. Like he’d been waiting for permission to devour.

He bit my nipple through my bra, then bent down, pulling off my pants and underwear. He pulled me towards the bed and lay me down.