A heartbeat stretched between us.
Then he exhaled, rolling onto his side, away from me. He ran a hand over his face, his jaw clenching. I could feel his tense, battle-worn body coiled beside me.
"You want to leave?" he asked quietly, but something in the way he said made me shiver. Despite the question, despite the choice he offered, I knew it was a dare. Or, a warning? Whatever it was, I didn’t move.
Instead, I sat up, my pulse pounding in my ears. Slowly, my fingers went to his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as I peered into his eyes. He caught my wrist. His eyes caught mine as I looked up, and for the first time, I saw something raw in his eyes. Something haunted.
He let me go.
I didn't hesitate. The buttons gave way under my touch. His shirt parted to reveal his skin.
I paused. Scars.Tattoos.
They marked him. It was a patchwork of stories inked and carved into his flesh. Some old. Some fresh. Some deep enough to make me wonder how he survived them. My fingers traced over the jagged ridges, feeling the faded wounds. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop me.
His hands tore my dress over my head, the fabric ripping at the seams as he yanked it off. My bra followed, unclasped in a single, practised motion. I was bare before him, my nipples tight, aching for his mouth. His heated gaze devoured me.
Instead, he cupped my breast, kneading slowly.
He gasped at the sensation, the heat of his palm against my bare skin, the way his thumb rolled over my tightening nipple.
"You think I’m a criminal." His voice was rough.
I swallowed. "Are you a good one?"
His lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
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