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A grunt comes from beside me, and I lift my head up a little too fast to see who it came from.
“Ouch.” My fingers fly to my forehead and massage my temples, attempting to offer an ounce of relief. After a moment, I pry my eyes open again, finding a mop of neatly trimmed ebony hair on the pillow next to mine.
My perusal dips lower, discovering a naked muscular back, covered in scars. The sight of them makes me cringe, those had to be agonizing however he received them. They’re various sizes, long and short, some wider than the others in various crisscrosses.
The poor man; I can only imagine what he’s been through. Who or what would do such a thing? I know there has to be a significant story behind them, and I want to ask about it, but I’m not sure it would be a welcome topic.
I can’t stop myself from being curious if the rest of him is naked as well. The covers have him hidden from the hip down, not that it does anything to stop my imagination from running wild with ideas. My fingers find the grossly disfigured indentions and lightly trace each one. I don’t know what spurs me on, giving me the courage to do so. Maybe I feel safe because he’s sleeping.
He’s broken, but yet so perfect.
Seeing him dressed, you’d never guess what his clothing hides. The front of him is a thing of beauty, dips and plains showcasing his strong stomach. The muscles aren’t overly pronounced, just enough to make your eyes linger a bit longer. Then there’s his back, and it’s like reading a completely different story. If he were a book, the front cover would mislead you entirely because he has two very different sides.
His physique stiffens as my fingertips follow along their unplanned path, lightly caressing the alabaster blemishes. “What do you think you’re doing?” A gruff voice sleepily mumbles, startling me.
My touch falters for a moment as my heart rate increases before I go about my inspection as if undisturbed. “What happened?” I eventually choke out, not wanting to think of this man being tormented.
“I was whipped.”
“Wow,” I answer breathlessly, even though it was a scenario I’d already considered. Hearing it come from him, though, puts merit behind the brief thought. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He shrugs the comment off, but it doesn’t stop me from touching them. “Does me doing this bother you?”
Sinner shakes his head, holding perfectly still. “No,” he rasps. “To be honest, I like it. Your hands are soft, dainty.”
“You like the pain or me touching them?”
“Both.”
His answer’s confusing. How can anyone enjoy a pain such as this? And what did he ever do to deserve something so harsh? Sinner’s a kind man; at least, he is to me. It’s hard to fathom why someone would want to torture him in such a remarkably cruel way.
“Do the marks still hurt you?”
He shrugs again. “Depends. They can be a slightly sensitive sometimes, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“And what about your arms? They’re completely covered in tattoos,” I state the obvious. “Did those hurt worse?”
“Jesus, is there any part of you that isn’t so virtuous, Jude? Have you really been sheltered this much your entire life?” His questions catch me off guard. I’m not used to him speaking much past grunts and mumbles and definitely not about personal things. Usually, he’s grouchy with random short answers, almost like he’s attempting to get me to shut up and stop bothering him, but not now.
“Umm, well, I’ve seen stuff on TV and the internet before. I’ve read plenty of books, but if you’re asking if I speak to people about these sorts of things regularly, then the answer would be no. The only other people like you, stop at the bar on the way through town. I don’t go there, so you’re my first.”
He groans, and I frown. What now? I didn’t say anything bad; I was just being real with him.
“And the drinking last night—you ever drink alcohol before, sweetheart?”
“My mom’s never cared, so I’ve tried some of her lemonade flavored malts.”
“Fuck! You mean Mike’s Hard Lemonade?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“So, you’ve never been drunk before—like last night, ever?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” He moves his back in an impatient squirm once I stop touching his scars, so I continue to rub over his skin casually.
“I don’t know how to make drinks taste sweet and yummy. Plus, I’ve never been around anyone I felt safe with if I was like that.”
