Though she leads, I’m practically stepping on her toes; another mockery of the way I once forced her, at gun point, to take me to bed. I like that we’re echoes, as if we dance through shadows of our former selves. In the bare canvas of my bedroom—white furniture, white sheets, white carpet—I push her down with her back to the mattress, kneel at the foot of the bed, and scoop her legs up over my shoulders. Shove the shirt up until I’m greeted by sliver-thin lace panties and the tanned stretch of her inner thighs, so gently scarred.
I plant a sucking kiss on each scar. Leo moans already, sounding choked and pained; we have our own language where foreplay is concerned, and it begins each morning when the sun cracks through the drapes, when we remember, with a heartbeat, that the other exists. So by the time I touch her, she’s always ready—even when she tells me otherwise. And she’s never more ready than when I drag my lips over the lithe little tendons at the tops of her thighs. The lace of her panties is damp with warm ice, as if I melt her from the inside; did you ever stand out in a snowstorm and catch the flakes on your tongue? When I peel those panties aside, I treat her clit just like that. Like it will dissolve if I lick too hard. Instead, I let her buck up toward me, let her land on my tongue again and again until I get a feel for the rhythm she needs, and then…I suck her in. Push down with sudden fingers until I’m knuckle-deep in wet heat. I can’t help the curse that escapes me then, or the urgent ache that clutches everything below my waist.
I could be the bossy asshole who just takes what he wants. God knows I’ve been that many times. But I’d rather give her what she longs for first; then she can’t bring herself to say no, no matter what I ask, and tonight, seems I might need a little more in my corner. Call it manipulation if you want, but to me, ah…it’s the closest thing to love I have to offer. And close, closer…see how she swells for me, full of the blissful, exquisite sting that descends before orgasm. I can taste that now too. She’s ripe with it, panting and hoarse.
In a fit of desire, I lunge upward, and then we’re tugging at buttons and zips until there’s nothing but air between us, ‘til we’re naked. Skin on scar. There’s a hazy, ashen bullet hole just left of my navel, and a faint pink line running three inches down my belly—Leo’s legacy sewn into me, imperfect flesh where perfect used to be. When I brace myself over her, panting and almost angry, her pupils dilate until her eyes are black buttons. I drag a wet finger across her lips. She laps at it. Catches it between her teeth. There’s no furniture or bed or room around us anymore, just the drunk thrill of adrenaline coursing through my tiniest veins and the honey-sex scent of her hanging in the air amid remnants of smoke.
“I’m close,” she says in a hoarse voice. Her lips are damp against my finger; her words are full with longing, as if she’s saying a prayer. “Please…”
“Mmm…” The sound turns into a groan that reverberates around my throat, and I drop my body over hers, push down with enough weight to alight her flesh with pins and needles. My cock is so stiff it’s white-hot. Feels weightless as it nudges her clit. She yelps; I enter; I want to feel nothing but the pulpy pull of her inner muscles. Shit, I’d peel the air off my skin if that were possible, just to save myself the distraction of everything that isn’t this fuck.
Beside the bed, a slender black box lies waiting. I slow my thrusts. Breathe restraint into my lungs. Then I reach for the box, flick the lid away, pull the scalpel out and watch Leo flinch at the familiar flash of silver in darkness. Her entire body stiffens beneath me, softening only when I roll my hips. She sucks air between her teeth. Swallows. Perhaps, she tells herself, we’re just paper dolls in a flip book, and the knife will disappear if she can blink her way to the end.
I run my empty hand down to cup her left breast. I’ve been rough already and she’s flushed there, crushed near to bruising; when I roll my palm over her nipple, she lets out a little squeal.
“We talked about this,” I murmur, focusing on the smooth, curved flesh in my hand. “We agreed next…it would be here.”
“You decided,” she manages. “That’s not the same as we agreed.”
“Shh.”