Page 24 of The Devil’s Feather

“Don’t judge me.” I turned to show him.

“I like it.” Rafael’s fingers grazed the dragon on my shoulder, trailing down to Tolkien’s monogram. “Looks like a keyhole. If I insert a key and wind you up, will you sing for me?”

My brain made static noises.

“Do you like to be dominated?” His lips brushed the monogram. “Or would you rather be in control?”

My nipples were hard as diamonds. “Fuck, you’re making it hard to think. Um… Yes? Both?” Shit, when was the last time a man actually asked what I liked? “I want to be dominated tonight. I think. Gently. Just don’t call me ‘good girl’. It feels too generic.” Was that kinkshaming? Shit!

“Spoken like a true author.” Rafael flipped me over, lifting me off the sofa like I weighed less than a feather. “No generic praise, and I will be very gentle. Say ‘stop’ when you want to stop. How do you feel about restraints?”

Feverish, my words crowded on my tongue. All that came out was a pitiful “Meep!”

He laughed under his breath and kissed my forehead. “No restraints tonight.”

Rafael carried me through the gym and up the stairs. I latched onto the dark nipple so tantalizingly close to my face. His hissed intake of breath gave me pause.

“Bite me,” he commanded.

I obeyed.

“Harder. As hard as you can.”

Trusting him to know his body, I bit until I feared I’d draw blood.

He carried me into a bedroom dominated by the largest bed I’d ever seen. It brushed the walls on three sides and had no headboard, only an assortment of pillows. The only other furniture was a single nightstand and a lamp.

“Good,” he rumbled, and ripped my mouth free as he tossed me onto the dark blue duvet.

I bounced once, and he caught my leg, yanking me beneath him.

Rafael stared down at me, eyes bright, tendrils of hair tickling my face and neck. “I would very much like to lick your clit until you come in my mouth, and keep you coming until you beg me to stop. Maybe one or two more after that.”

I let out an involuntary moan.

He tapped the side of my face. “I need a clear ‘yes’.”

“Yes. Fuck yes!” I pounded the mattress with balled up fists.

He kissed his way down my body, unzipped my jeans, and pulled them off my legs. Here he paused. I had far fewer scars than he did. Hot breath tickled my upper thighs. His lips grazed the thickened skin. At my encouraging noises, he nibbled experimentally at the physical reminders of my anguish. He lingered over the largest one, where I’d slipped and accidentally-on-purpose cut way too deep,. The sensation was both uncomfortably strange and intensely erotic.

“You are the first guy who hasn’t been weird about my scars.”

“Disgustingly hypocritical of me if I was, no?” He nuzzled the raised marks. “I treasure these brands of your survival. They brought you to me.”

“Come on, now, don’t make me horny and sad. That’s what Sleep Token is for.”

“‘Cuhm own, nayow’,” Rafael mocked with a chuckle. “I wondered where that Southern accent was hiding.” Reaching my sodden thong, he teased the sprouts of hair escaping around the edges.

What if he hated pubes like most of my exes? “I’m sorry, I don’t like shaving⁠—”

“Shh.”

“But I’m⁠—”

“Shut your mouth. I love that you have pubic hair like a goddamn adult. Do not shave anything.” Rafael stroked the dark fuzz. “You are perfect.”

Somehow, that was even hotter than all the kissing. I’d devolve and melt into a useless puddle of primordial goo at this rate. Who needed bones anyway?