Page 102 of Sinful Desires
Then her voice, barely above a whisper. “How many tattoos do you have?”
“Thirty-six.”
She let out a sleepy laugh, soft and fading. “One for every year you’ve lived?”
I stared out the window, my jaw clenched tight. “No.”
A pause.
“One for every year I survived when I wasn’t supposed to.”
A breath left her lips, soft and steady, like she was exhaling the last of whatever held her together.
I opened my eyes and glanced over my shoulder. She was watching me, her gaze heavy and sad, stripped of every mask she usually wore.
“I’m glad you’re still here, Théo,” she whispered.
No teasing. No smile. Just the truth, plain and wrecking. My chest tightened, a slow, splintering kind of ache, the kind that came when something touched a part of me I thought was long dead.
“You may be the only one, Scarlett.”
Her eyes searched mine like she was trying to memorize something.
“Come here, soldier,” she said softly.
I stood without a word and dropped the towel. Pulling the covers back, I lay down beside her, careful not to touch. I draped the blanket over us again, but the second I did, she moved. Her body curled into mine like it belonged there. Soft against every inch of me.
Fuck me.She was naked too.
She sighed quietly and pressed her face to my chest, her leg over mine, her fingers curling near my ribs like she was afraid I might disappear. My hand slid down her back, tracing the line of her spine until she shivered. Her hair was already braided.
“I still can’t believe you’re eleven years older than me,” she murmured against my skin.
“And I still can’t believe a twenty-five year old spoiled little brat thinks she can climb into my bed and give me orders.”
Her lips brushed my chest as she smiled. “Don’t lie. I know you secretly like it.”
I let out a low breath. “I like a lot of things I shouldn’t.”
She looked up, eyes half lidded. “Am I one of them?”
“My favorite one.”
I pressed my lips to the crown of her head and inhaled. Her hair was damp, still scented faintly of lavender and something sweeter underneath. We stayed like that for a long time.
Her fingers shifted lower, dragging slowly across my abs.
“What’s your favorite color?” she whispered, her voice soft, almost playful.
“What’s yours?”
She hummed. “Purple.”
“Same.”
“Liar,” she smiled, pinching just above my hip.
“What?” I murmured, hand gliding down her arm. “Just because you picked it, I can’t?”
