I run my hands over his chest, over tattoos, scars, muscle and warm skin, and when my fingers find the bandage at his side, he hisses.
“You’re hurt.”
“So are you.”
“I’m prettier.”
“By miles.”
“Smart answer.”
His mouth moves down my throat, over my collarbone, lower. He pauses at every bruise like he is memorizing where not to press. It should make me feel fragile. It does not. It makes me feel seen.
When his mouth closes over my breast, over my nipple, my back arches.
“Shady.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Less careful.”
His breath shakes against my skin. “You sure?”
I grab his hair and pull his face up. “I said what I said, blanquito.”
That snaps something.
His smile turns slow and filthy. “Then hold on to me, Lady. I am done treating want like it is a wound.”
He kisses me harder, rougher, the way I need, all teeth and tongue and dirty promises against my mouth. His hand slides between my thighs, and when he finds me already wet, his groan is almost angry.
“Fuck, Lady.”
“Problem?”
“Big one, growing in my pants.”
“Sounds personal.”
His fingers move, and my smart mouth falls apart.
He works me with the patience of a man who knows roads, exits, and exactly how to make a woman lose her way. Slow at first, like he is learning what I let him have. Then meaner when my hips chase his hand. His thumb circles just right, and I grind into him like I forgot I am supposed to be mad.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
I glare at him. “Do not sound proud.”
“I am proud.” His fingers curl, and my breath breaks. “Proud as fuck. You are letting me touch you while you still have every reason to make me bleed.”
“I might still make you bleed.”
“Good.” His mouth drags down my stomach. “I would deserve it.”
His mouth follows the path his hand started, down my ribs, over my stomach, to the inside of my thigh. I stop breathing for one second when his beard scrapes sensitive skin. He looks up at me from between my legs, ice-blue eyes gone dark and hungry, his big hands spread on my thighs but not holding them open.
Waiting.
Still fucking waiting.
