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Lifting my arm in the air, I see the bite mark she’s referring to—a circular shape of red cuts.
But that’s not what has me gawking.
Sitting up and bringing Ro with me, I look for all the scars I’ve memorized. I’d normally find dozens of lines on my knuckles, but they’re no longer there.
I scan the rest of my arm and my shoulder. I pat my chest and touch my face where my marks used to be, but it’s all just smooth skin.
My scars are gone.
Gone.
“Am I—?”
“Healed, it seems.” Ro’s face gets closer to mine and she traces my forehead and cheek where my most hated scar was.
My nerves are so reactive. I feel every single millimeter. The pad on Ro’s finger almost tickles like a feather as it bumps over my eyebrow again and again.
She’s practically petting me.
Dread mingles with desire in the pit of my stomach while Ro admires me in this state of perfection.
After seeing me like this—aesthetically pleasing—there’s no way she could look at me the same when I return to my normal appearance. And Iwillreturn to the way I was.
This is temporary. My scars cannot be erased. I’ve consulted wizards and witches. Tried tinctures and tonics. Slathered on terrible-smelling pastes. Nothing has worked.
What a cruel trick for Armand to play. Ro warned me of his sadism, but I didn’t realize he would know how to emotionally demolish me.
And this… this could wreck me.
Suddenly registering the fact that Ro’s straddling my lap, I become keenly aware of her weight pressing down on my cock. I can feel the warmth of her pussy through the layers of burlap and leather between us. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice how hard I am because she’s too busy studying the absence of my scars.
When she leans forward to peer at my back, she squeezes the place where my neck meets my shoulder. It’s almost like a massage, and I can’t help the quiet groan that escapes.
“Sorry.” Ro quickly removes her hand with an apologetic grimace. “I forgot you don’t like that.”
I shake my head. “You can touch me as much as you want.”
“But you said—”
“What I said doesn’t apply to you.”
Understanding emanates from her when she says, “It’s different now.”
No, it’s different withher, but I keep that tidbit to myself.
Switching the topic, I ask, “Did the flowers get you?”
She glances down at herself. “I don’t think so.”
Her skimpy scraps give me an unobstructed view of her front, and I scrutinize her arms, her torso, and her thighs.
Her much thicker thighs.
I’m not the only one whose physical appearance has unexpectedly changed.
Ro isn’t as thin as she was before. She’s healthier, more filled out. Her breasts are so big they’re nearly spilling out of her top.
Suppressing a moan, I stare down at her ample cleavage. Her lungs are working hard from our run-in with the flowers. With her chest rising and falling the way it is, it’s making her flesh bulge in the most titillating way. I lick my lips when I think about pulling the fabric down and sucking on one of her nipples.
