Page 95 of The Bad Boy Rule

Warmth creeps up her cheeks, and I exhale a laugh when she pushes my chest with an eye roll.

“Come over?” she breathes.

“You mean like I have every night since last week?”

Her lip tilts in a cheeky grin. “Obviously.”

That’s how,two hours later, I’m sprawled out in her pink, frilly bed with my feet hanging off the end, with her draped across me.

Still… mostly clothed.

It’s a lot like cuddling, and that makes me shiver a little. It’s something I’ve never done withanyonebefore. Pretty sure I never even cuddled with my own mom as a child.

Affection outside of fucking isn’t my normal.

But having her on top of me, comfortable, relaxed, chin resting on the top of her hand as she looks at me… I don’t know, it feels right.

Maybe it’s my new normal.

And maybe I really fucking like it.

The tip of her finger trails softly across the ink on my chest, tracing the outline of the roses. Her long, auburn hair is twisted up in a clip at her nape, her face free of makeup aside from whatever shiny gloss she put on her lips, her long eyelashes kissing her cheeks as she looks down at the tattoos beneath her.

She’s staring at the art, and I’m staring at her.

She has no fucking clue that she’s art in the purest form, and I’d ink her onto my skin in a heartbeat.

“Did they hurt?”

“Nah, not really,” I say, shaking my head, “It’s not too bad. I’ve got a pretty high pain tolerance.” Her eyes flick to the fading bruises around my eye, still a reminder of that night. At least there’s something good to take from that shitty situation. This—me and her. “There are a few spots that hurt, like my ribs, my elbow, the top of my hand, but it wasn’t unbearable. You honestly start to get addicted to the feeling. Probably why I have so many.”

She traces the scripted words down my side, her gaze trailing over the letters. “I love them.”

I smirk. “Yeah?”

She nods. “So cliché bad boy of you.” Her teasing tone earns her a little smack on her ass, and she giggles before her expression turns serious. “I think they fit you, and I love thatthey mean something. They’re stories that you’ll always carry with you.”

I’ve told her about most of them, and she’s listened intently, like she genuinely cares about why I got them.

When the pads of her fingers move over my chest again, my gaze slides to the ring on her finger. Pink and gold, heart-shaped, dainty… and feels veryher.

I know it’s her purity ring or whatever only from what Bennett said, but she’s never mentioned anything about it.

“What’s this ring? I never see you take it off. Does it mean something?” I ask.

She’s quiet for a moment before she nods, “Yeah, um… it’s my promise ring. It’s actually kind of embarrassing to talk about, but it used to be a purity ring given to me by my parents.”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she rolls her lips together, “I know that’s really old school and archaic, but it was basically drilled into my head growing up that I was to save myself for marriage. And after some things happened in my life… I decided to repurpose it. It’s now a promise to myself to make my own choices with my body, my life. To never let anyone decide those things for me. Not that it really applies any longer, but to givemyselfto whoever I wanted without guilt or consequence.”

Carefully she slips it off her finger and tilts it, “I got this phrase inscribed on the inside the day I made the promise to myself to take my life back.”

Inside readsDe meo arbitrio.

“It means,By thy own will.” She adds before slipping back into place on her finger. “So, yeah.”

That wasn’t at all what I was expecting her to say, but I’m glad she’s giving her father a figurative fuck you. My fingers trace along the slope of her shoulder, a small sliver of bare, creamy skin that peeks out from the old hockey T-shirt of mine that she stole a few days ago. I almost ripped it off her when Isaw her in it for the first time. She walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but that shirt, and it made something primal and possessive swell in my chest.

Minewas all I could think.

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