I chuckled and brushed my thumb along her jaw, softer now. “I’m kidding,” I said. “Well—mostly.”
My voice lowered, rougher now. “Anything that comes from you is beautiful. I won’t allow you to doubt yourself ever again. You hear me? They’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
She didn’t answer. She just kissed me—slow and soft—and nudged me back onto the bed.
We didn’t talk much after that.
We fucked like addicts breaking sobriety. Like the world didn’t matter, like nothing existed but sweat, teeth, and skin. I slammed into her over and over until her voice went hoarse and my body ached from wanting her.
We slept in short bursts, minutes stolen between orgasms. We woke only to find ourselves clawing at each other again, dragging the night out like it owed us something.
She was everywhere—on top of me, beneath me, on her knees. Her mouth was full, her eyes wild, her fingers digging in like she’d die if I stopped. She sobbed when I told her to keep quiet, and I fucked her harder just to hear her disobey.
The house remained silent, but her moans didn’t. I muffled them with kisses, with my palm, with her own lace panties shoved between her lips. I lost count of how many times I took her. I lost count of everything except her.
By the time the sky shifted and the dark began to bleed into gray, our bodies were spent and tangled in the sheets, the chaos of the night still clinging to the air like smoke.
Morning arrived pale and quiet. She stirred against me, one leg thrown over mine, her cheek pressed to my chest. We hadn’t bothered pulling the covers up. The air kissed her bare skin, and I let my hand drift slowly down her side.
She smiled as her eyes fluttered open. I brushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed her forehead.
“I’m not sure I can walk today,” she whispered, teasing.
I smirked, my laugh low and rough. “That supposed to be a complaint?”
She giggled and hid her face against my skin. “Maybe I’ll stay in bed forever.”
I pulled her closer. “That sounds like a fucking dream.”
Her fingers started tracing the ink on my chest, slow and curious. “Tell me about these,” she murmured.
I looked down. “Which one?”
She let her fingers trail along my side, pausing over the serpent etched in ink. “This one?”
Her touch hovered above the spot where the snake devoured its own tail—right over the faded, jagged scar that never healed smooth.
I held still, letting her feel it. “Someone tried to end me once. Slipped a blade in deep enough to leave something permanent.”
She glanced up at me, her brow pinched with something like pain. “And you turned it into this?”
I nodded once. “Figured if I had to carry it, it might as well be mine.”
She didn’t say anything for a beat. Then: “It’s beautiful. And fucked up.”
I smirked. “So’s life.”
Then her finger moved to my arm, hovering over a jagged, faded shape. “That?”
“First tattoo I ever had. I was fifteen. Gang symbol from the old neighborhood. Done with a sewing needle and ash mixed with vodka. Dumb as fuck, but it meant something back then—brotherhood, survival.”
She traced a few more, and I gave her names, meanings. Some were earned. Some forced. Some I didn’t remember getting.
Then her touch stilled. She pointed to the script above my heart.
????(Mila).
“You should scratch it out,” she said lightly. “Put my name there instead.”
