Page 192 of Traitor

"You're not moving, Temper." His voice is dark, leaves no room for arguing. "You're sleeping exactly like this."

"You're still inside—"

"Yeah, I know. And that's exactly where I'm staying." He kisses the top of my head. "Sleep, baby."

"But—," I don't get to finish. I yawn about three times in a row and that's the end of my night.

34. Judge

Temper

When I wake up, it's early morning. I'm still sprawled on top of Bones, his arms locked around me, holding me captive. His grip is firm, possessive even in sleep. I tilt my head, looking up at him. He looks peaceful. Completely at ease. I haven't seen him like this since more than five years ago.

My fingers tingle with the urge to trace the sharp lines of his jaw, to skim over his lips, to memorize the way he looks when all the weight he carries isn't pressing down on him. But I stay still, unwilling to wake him.

Except a certain part of him is most definitely waking up.

I feel it. Still inside me. And I have to wonder how the fuck that's even possible. Is this some kind of supernatural ability he has? Dark magic? This can't be normal. This is some romance novel-level shit.

My eyes catch on the tattoo inked on the skin of his throat. My fingers itch even more now. I want to touch it. I always want to touch it. It calls to me every time I see it, like a siren's song I have no power to resist.

"You can touch it if you want, baby." His voice is rough, thick with sleep. His eyes remain closed.

I startle slightly at the sudden sound of his voice, and the movement makes him groan, shifting just enough for me to feel every inch of him, still buried deep inside me. Heat floods my body, a quiet gasp slipping past my lips before I can stop it.

I lift my hand and finally trace the ink, running my fingers slowly over the letters.

"Don't you wish you could make this disappear now, you dummy?" I whisper.

He cracks one eye open, watching me, before lifting his own hand and brushing his fingers over my neck.

"No," he says simply, his voice steady. "I deserve to wear it." His thumb skims over the scar on my throat, his touch reverent, delicate. "I wish I could makethisdisappear, though."

A small, knowing smile plays on my lips.

"I don't," I say softly. "I don't want to live in the past anymore, but it's still mine. You told me something like that once, not long ago. And you were right. I am who I am today because of everything I've been through. The good, the bad, the ugly."

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze, wanting him to see the conviction in my eyes.

"Bones, you've been doing a lot better with handling your guilt, but you still have work to do. If we're really doing this — if we're going all in, if we're trying for a real future — then you need to start thinking clearly. You can't let the past blind you. I may not want to cut you anymore, but knowing you, you'll find a way to piss me off one day and offer me your fucking throat just because you think you deserve it."

My lips quirk at the corners, teasing, but my words are laced with truth. "Therapy helped me. I think you should try it. See if maybe it'll help you, too."

His expression shifts, something warm settling into his features. His smile is small but genuine, and fuck, it looks good on him.

"I'll do it, baby," he murmurs. "If you say it helped you, I'll do it. It can't fucking hurt, can it?" His lips twitch into something almost smug. "But also, this is a really weird fucking conversation to have while I'm still inside you."

Before I can react, he flips me onto my back, knocking the air from my lungs. A burst of laughter spills out of me, and his grin turns wicked, dark amusement dancing in his eyes.

"We could be doing something much more fun," he whispers, before his mouth crashes onto mine.

Two hours later, we're stepping out of my shower, steam curling around us. My legs feel like jelly, my skin flushed and overheated, and my body? Completely spent. We can't seem to keep our hands off each other now that we stepped over the boundary.

At some point, we found ourselves lost in something deeper than just the physical — he kissed every one of my scars, reverent, unhurried. In return, I did the same. I pressed my lips to each mark I left on him, my mouth lingering over the jagged one that cuts through the ink on his arm. It felt like a ritual, like some twisted, cathartic act of absolution neither of us spoke about but both of us understood.

And then, we fucked like rabbits. Again.

I groan, tightening the towel around my body. "If we keep going at this pace, I'm gonna need actual food. Otherwise, I'll die. Soon."

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