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His chest is hard and defined, marked with old scars.

There’s a thin white line under his collarbone, another one across his ribs.

There are a plethora of small round ones I want to know more about but honestly, don’t care about in this present moment.

His stomach is flat, muscle laddering down in a way that shouldn’t be legal, disappearing into the low waistband of those sweatpants in a V that draws my eyes exactly where he wants them.

And the tattoos.

The tattoos.

My mouth goes dry again and I kind of wish I had drunk more water when I had the chance.

The few glimpses I got from his shirts gave me an idea of how extensive his tattoos were. Now that I’ve seen all of it, it takes my breath away.

They’re beautiful. Whoever did it was an artist.

Nico has a full sleeve running from his right wrist up over his shoulder and across his upper chest, blackwork with fine detail and shading, and I can pick out pieces of it as my eyes move: an angel on his shoulder, wings spread, head bowed like something in mourning.

Roses climbing his forearm, dark and heavy. Latin text I can’t quite read circling his bicep. There’s something abstract and geometric down the inside of his arm.

A compass rose over his heart.

And low on his ribs, half-hidden and half-visible, what looks like the fragmented outline of a wrecked car.

That’s the one my eyes stop on and I honestly stop breathing.

He watches me find it through heavy-lidded eyes and doesn’t say anything.

He just breathes raggedly and lets me have the moment. When I finally drag my eyes back up to his face he is looking at me with such a hungry expression, it nearly sets me over the edge.

Then his hands are on the hem of my tank and his eyes are asking a question mine already answered.

“Yes,” I croak. “Yes.”

He pulls my shirt off me slowly and carefully, as if he thinks if he moves wrong I’ll change my mind, but I’m too desperate to want anything else.

The tank top hits the floor somewhere. His eyes drop to my chest and stay there, and the look on his face—dear sweet merciful heavens, the look on his face—does more to me than any of his hands have managed so far.

“Beautiful,” Nico whispers, licking his lips and staring at my breasts and upper body. “So fucking beautiful.” He bends his head and his mouth encircles a nipple. I gasp and clutch onto him, arching for more.

His tongue swirls against the bud, and my core pulses with need.

Nico releases the nipple, softly blows cool air on it, and lavishes attention to the other one, his fingers kneading into the flesh of my hips.

I can’t take it anymore. I force his mouth back to mine, our kiss becoming even more heated, tongues tangling together.

I suck on his tongue, loving how he moans into my mouth. I trace his muscles, smirking against his mouth as I feel him shudder and sharply inhale.

God, he has such a beautiful body.

Ripping my mouth away, I also bend my head, mapping out the scars and tattoos on his body with my tongue, feeling Nico’s hands wind into my hair as he jerks his hips into mine.

His hands roam my body with a desperation that mirrors my own. I grind against him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire, and it only fuels my own. “Katerina,” he breathes again, gripping me tighter and pulling me closer. His fingers dig into my hips, guiding my movements, and I moan into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us.

His touch is electric, his kisses a drug I can’t get enough of. His hands find my bare back, tracing the lines of my spine, and I arch into his touch, moaning softly.

I rock my hips, grinding against him in a rhythm that makes us both gasp. His hands slide to my hips, guiding my movements, his grip firm and possessive.