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He didn’t put pressure on my skin, his lips were barely there, but every time he made contact, agony mingled with ecstasy. I struggled against his tee. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve gotten out. If I told him to stop, he would have. Immediately.
I almost did. My mouth opened to tell him I couldn’t do this, that I wasn’t ready for this. Then his finger rubbed my clit, and his head tilted up so his eyes met mine.
There was no revulsion there. No pity. Only need.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, Sariah.”
And before I could respond, before I could argue, his mouth was no longer on my midsection, it was right where his fingers were. Except there was no longer a barrier of cotton between us.
Surprising even myself, I came the second his mouth touched my sensitive skin.
But Colby didn’t stop. My hands were still above my head, tangled in his tee.
Colby’s mouth stated there for all my aftershocks, sending me over the edge, multiple orgasms melding into each other.
I quivered with exhaustion when he slid up my body, laying a gentle kiss on the worst of my scars. I flinched at the contact, not entirely from pain but from a new sensation. His mouth was coated with my pleasure, covering the space of my greatest shame.
I didn’t have enough presence of mind to completely process that, which was probably good.
Colby’s mouth brushed against mine, kissing me deeply. I tasted myself on him, and I loved it.
His naked torso brushed against mine, my nerve endings singing and screaming in unison.
One of Colby’s hands locked around my still bound wrists, the other bracing him on the mattress to hover over me.
Then he was inside.
His mouth on mine stifled my moans of pleasure, my body struggling with the sensation of being so full while still so sensitive.
I loved it. Every time Colby was inside of me, I felt complete. Whole. Alive.
I was so far gone, I might’ve said something I regretted. If his mouth wasn’t covering mine, I might’ve told him I loved him.
Luckily, he didn’t stop kissing me. And my final orgasm crashed over me so intensely, I lost the ability to speak.
A close call.
Too fucking close.
After having what was possibly the most intense sex of my life—in my childhood bedroom with my parents down the hall, no less—I was exhausted. Every one of my limbs felt like lead, my breathing slowly returning to normal.
I was curled up against Colby, my leg thrown over his hip, my head resting on his chest. His arm was around me, underneath his tee—I’d put it back on. We’d made progress, but not that much progress—drawing patterns against my bare skin.
“It’s hard,” I whispered against his chest. “Seeing them. I’ve turned them into villains my entire life, blaming them for so much when really, they were just doing the best with what they had.” I drew lines on his pec. “It’s all too confronting, realizing that if I want to blame my parents for anything, it’s blaming them for loving me the only way they knew how.”
He stroked my hair. “I think that’s what fucks us up the most, our parents fucking us up even though they love us.”
My fingers trailed across the dragon on his chest. “Where does this come from?”
He looked down at his chest as if he were seeing the ink for the first time.
“Alyssa was a talented artist,” he smiled. “She loved to draw.” There was more warmth in his tone than when he’d described her in that shitty motel room. “She wanted to go to art school, make a career out of it, but she knew our parents wouldn’t approve of that. So she focused on her studies like the dutiful daughter she was. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if she’d been allowed to pursue her passion, commit to it, if things might’ve been different. I imagine my parents thought about that a lot too.”
He played with a strand of my hair.
“Maybe it might’ve changed things … for a time,” he sighed. “But I don’t think it would’ve fixed things. It isn’t that simple.” His eyes searched mine. “Nothing ever is.”
He looked back down at his chest.
“I got it after she died, right before I left home.”
My fingers traced the intricate lines, the dragon all the more meaningful now.
Though I was a rebellious teen and a wild college student, I had yet to put ink on my body. I wanted it. But I didn’t know myself well enough in order to understand what I would want on my body permanently.
For a second, a split second, I toyed with the idea of one. One that made me think of Colby. A reminder.
But I shoved that away.
I already had enough marks on me that I couldn’t take off. Enough reminders.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest of souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars,” Colby’s deep voice filtered through my mind.
