Teeth scrape over my tongue as he changes direction.
“Bathroom.”
He might as well be speaking a foreign language. “Hmm?” I hum, chasing his lips.
“You’re freezing and fucking soaked,” he laughs as we stumble through his bedroom, connected at the mouth. Little does he know, I’m not cold anymore. Quite the opposite, actually; I’m onfire.
Grinning into his kiss, I ask, “What’re you gonna do about it?”
Deviance sparkles in the gold strands of his irises as he switches on the light and reels me into the center of the spacious ensuite.
“First, I’m getting you out of these wet clothes.”
Goosebumps explode across my skin.
“Well fuck, if I knew all it took for you to undress me was to hang out in the rain, I would’ve done it ages ago.”
Hot palms carve a trail from my shoulders to my chest, over my stomach, pausing on the hem of my drenched shirt.
“Win?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up and let me take care of you.”
Dear lord, if this is a dream, don’t wake me up.
I bite my lip.
A low groan rumbles in the back of his throat and he mutters something like, “You’ll be the death of me,” before peeling my shirt off. It hits the tile with a slap. Cool air draws my nipples into tight buds, the barbells through them attracting his hungry stare. His pupils swallow all traces of hazel as he hooks a thumb through one of my belt loops, scalding gaze roaming over my ink.
Fingertips tickle my side.
“You added to it,” he murmurs, tracing the rose now covered in thorns and dripping blood. His nail skims the veins of the crimson petals. “I like it.”
My breath catches. His delicate, exploratory touch moves to the tattooed barbed wire weaving through my collarbone. The ache in my groin nears unbearable, but I don’t dare rush him. I want to live in this intimacy with him eternally.
He peruses the artwork decorating my skin, a fascinated, pensive look on his face. When he reaches the Latin script etched through my iliac crest, he pauses.
“What does it mean?”
Talking is suddenly impossible. I clear my throat, running through all the lies I could spill. But it’s pointless; he'll find out eventually.
“You’re not what's been done to you.”
Suddenly, green-gold eyes lock on mine.
Please, please don’t ask.
“We’re gonna come back to this,” he says, tapping it twice before returning to my jeans. Relief ripples over me like a waterfall. His pointer and thumb pinch the button on my fly, brows lifted in question.
“Can I?”
My eyes sting.
No one has asked me but him. I’d forgotten the feeling of being treated with reverence. My hands tremble as I nod.
He gifts me a shy smile, revealing that goddamned dimple.
