By the time I’ve disentangled myself and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, she’s out cold, a light snore drifting from her parted lips.
Her face is red, mouth swollen, resembling the crescent shape of her cunt. After taking a quick piss, I grab a warm washcloth from the powder room and bring it back to the living area, settling it gently between her legs to try and soothe her abused flesh.
I won’t lie and say I don’t love the color on her. Red looks fucking good when it’s painting her skin because of me.
Pulling my knees to my chest and draping my forearms over them, I sit at her side for a long time. The heat from the fireplace envelops us, calming the chill in the air that flares when I’m not touching her.
I’m not sure what that’s about, but for now, I ignore it, positive that I don’t want to know.
I don’t feel like sullying this night with the bite of reality.
Speaking of…
My gaze falls to where her robe gapes, pooling on the floor under her. The flames cast her in shadows, barely giving visibility to her hip, but I look anyway, needing to see for myself.
A pinkish-white, angry abrasion stretches from the outside of her left hip and fades on the way to her belly button. It’s risen slightly compared to the unmarred skin, smooth to the touch but rough at the same time and two fingers thick at its widest point.
Nausea roils in my gut. Potential images of how she got the scar flip through my mind, dozens of scenarios playing out like the ending credits of a movie, all of them filling me with frustration and violence.
Trailing my fingers slowly over the mangled flesh, I continue down to where the word “angel” is etched into her hip. The reminder of putting it there eases my pulse a bit, and I dip my head, pressing the lightest kiss to the ink.
“Told you it was ugly.”
My eyes snap to hers, surprise flooding me like a sudden wave. Her head is propped up by her arm, and she’s watching me with an unreadable expression on her face.
I sit up, my hand brushing over her stomach. “It’s not—” I start, the sentence stalling partway through. No matter what, I doubt I’ll ever be able to convince her that the scars aren’t ugly, so truthfully, there’s no point in trying.
“You’re right, Riley. They’re ugly.”
A beat passes silently, and then she huffs out a harsh laugh. It’s broken, strangled, and I feel it pierce my chest the second it escapes.
“Okay, well. This was fun.” Reaching for the lapels of her robe, she pushes to her knees, snatching it closed. “Thanks for the orgasms, but I’d better get going. Feel free to stop by when nice Aiden comes back.”
Before she can get into a standing position, I reach out and grab her wrist, tugging her into my lap as I settle back against the couch.
“Seriously?” She wiggles around as I bracket her with my legs, pulling her backside flush with my front. “Let go of me.”
“No.”
Her jaw clenches, and she lets out a ragged screech. “I want to go home.”
“I don’t care. You’re going to stay here until I say you can leave.”
“Oh, are we adding kidnapping to your list of offenses now?”
“Depends,” I say, skimming my nose along her hairline, inhaling soft floral hues and that fucking peppermint. God, she needs to stop using that lotion, or I need to get her a new bottle. “Do we think Stockholm Syndrome would affect your opinion of me?”
“Not in the way you might want it to.”
“Then stop talking, so I can let you go,” I murmur. She grunts, crossing her arms over her chest, and I slip my hands over her waist, toying with the tie of her robe. “I want you to feel something.”
“If you say your dick, I swear to God—”
One of my hands snakes up her front, cascading through the valley between her breasts to fit tight over her mouth.
Holding my left arm up, I turn it so my palm faces the ceiling, then take one of her hands and wrap it around my wrist. Slowly, I push the pads of her fingers into the inked skin, letting her feel the grooves and too-smooth lines buried under the compass and flock of birds.
Nerves cinch my throat, pulling so tight that breathing gets painful, but I let her soak in the unspoken implication anyway.
“Three suicide attempts by the time I turned fifteen.” I force the words from where they stick in my esophagus and try not to choke on them. “Each cut deeper than the last, but none of them quite enough to abate my misery.”
The smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol floods my senses along with the memory of waking up in my own bed, with just my mother sitting by my side, clutching my bandaged arm like it was her life raft and not the bane of my existence.
Riley’s fingers curl around my arm, a silent plea.
“I won’t go into the sordid details of why I was never taken to an ER, or why my family chose to handle each ordeal as a cry for attention rather than help, but if you’re wondering why you never heard about it online or in the media, it’s because they scrubbed the evidence away.”
Her eyes glisten, and I clear my throat, discomfort ricocheting through my veins.
“I started covering mine when I started performing. Mainly because my parents wanted me to, but also because I couldn’t stand the reminders of those low points in my life. The scars were ugly, and I got tired of seeing them. It helps that tattoos add to the whole bad boy brand I was aiming for. Somehow, men’s mental health does not.”
I work my jaw, considering what to add next. How to convey my truths.
“Anyway, all of that is to say I’m not operating under the illusion that scars somehow enhance our natural beauty, or amplify our plights. They don’t. They suck.” I drop my hand, tugging on her robe, and pull it open so her hip is bared.
Knuckles bleaching white, she balls her hands into fists, as if resisting the urge to cover herself.
Spreading my fingers over the diamond-shaped reminder on her skin, I turn my head, pressing my lips to her temple.