Winding along the inner length of his forearm is a tattooed rope inked in stark black, its end frayed and curling like something broken in a storm. It loops three times, clean and deliberate, before pulling taut across the skin. Not just a mark, but a memory. I run my nails lightly along it. He watches me, says nothing.
But it's the right arm that unravels me.
Beneath where his shirts always cover, hidden like a confession, are two wolves inked in fine black and grey. Mirrored. Snarling. One bears a scar cut through its muzzle. The other's mouth is shut, silent. Its eyes meet mine from under his skin, eerily calm, knowing. Between them sits a cracked crown, ancient and off-center, resting on a bed of inked poppies. War and memory. Power and grief. He catches me staring with my lips slightly parted. "They're not just tattoos," I murmur, fingers still grazing the wolves.
"No," he replies quietly. "They never are."
He undoes my blouse with even less haste. First one button, then the next, stopping after each to press his mouth to the new skin. My neck, the hollow of my throat, my sternum. His tongue flicks the line between my breasts. He's careful but notshy. When he reaches the last button, he parts the fabric and just looks.
I think he's about to say something, but he only lowers his head and kisses the curve of my shoulder. It's the lightest touch so far, and my whole body arches for more.
He drops to his knees, hands on my hips.
My skirt pools on the floor. He runs his palms up the backs of my thighs, under the line of my underwear, then peels them down slowly. I step out of them, leaving a pile of navy blue silk on marble tile. He stands. I'm wearing nothing but a lacy black bra and heels. His eyes drag up my body. I can see the effect it has on him—a tensing in his jaw, a slight hitch in his breath. I like that I can do this to him.
He slides his hands behind my knees, lifts me with zero effort. My legs wind around his waist automatically. He carries me to the bed. The sheets are cool, high-thread-count, probably changed right before we arrived. He sets me down like I weigh nothing, then stands at the foot of the bed and pulls off his belt. He lets it drop, then unzips his pants, pushing them down with boxer briefs together. He's already hard.
I watch him watch me. There's a hunger there, but also caution—like he's waiting for a sign to continue. I reach up, unclasp my bra, slide it down my arms, and toss it to the floor. The moment it lands, he's on the bed, crawling up between my legs.
His tongue starts on my ankle, works its way up my calf, behind my knee, the inside of my thigh. He lingers, breathing in the scent of me, then kisses right where I'm most sensitive. I gasp, fingers digging into the duvet. He likes that, smiles against my skin, then does it again, firmer. His hands spread my thighs, thumbs stroking as his tongue works methodically, never losing rhythm.
I can't stay quiet. I moan, softer than I mean to, but he hears. He doesn't stop. He goes slower, drawing out every sound I make. I know he's cataloging what works, every hitch in my breath, every twitch of my hips. His tongue circles, flattens, flicks. When I'm on the verge, he pauses, looks up at me, lips wet, eyes smug.
"Don't stop," I manage. He doesn't.
His tongue coaxes an orgasm out of me. My thighs clamp his head, nails scrape the sheets. I bite back a scream, but not well enough because the echo of it bounces off the windows. When it fades, I open my eyes. He's watching, mouth glistening, a dimple in his cheek as he grins.
Crawling further up, he kisses me hard. I taste myself on his lips. I want him inside me right now. I reach for his cock, wrap my hand around it. He's bigger than I expected, thick and smooth. He groans when I stroke him. I guide him to my entrance, but he hesitates, holding himself over me.
"Protection?" he asks, voice hoarse.
I nod, and he pulls a condom from his bedside drawer. He rolls it on fast, never breaking eye contact. Then he's inside me, slowly, carefully, letting me adjust. I grip his shoulders, pulling him deeper. He sets a pace, each thrust hitting exactly where I want it. He's focused, watching my face, my body, tweaking the angle to maximize my pleasure.
I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into his back. The friction is perfect. He grunts with each movement. I lose myself, meeting him thrust for thrust. His hands are everywhere—tangled in my hair, gripping my breast, thumb on my jaw forcing my head back so he can see every reaction.
He fucks like he means it. Like it matters. His hands slide down my thighs, then grip me tightly as he shifts back against the headboard. His strength pulls me with him, guiding me to straddle his lap, his cock still buried in me. The movementmakes me whimper. He hears it and grins, teeth sharp, eyes burning. "Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, voice thick. "You love being on top, don't you?"
My breath stutters. My hands flatten on his chest, feeling the rush of his heartbeat under the inked ouroboros. He lifts his hips slightly, even as I begin riding him, matching me thrust for thrust, still stretching me, teasing me, alive beneath my skin. "You want to hear how much I like it?" I whisper.
"Yes," he growls, hands flexing on my ass. "Say it. Ride me and say it."
I start to move in slow, rolling circles with my hips that drag him deeper. The friction is maddening. I gasp, loud, open-mouthed. My knees press tighter to his sides. My spine arches. He groans, deep and raw, head falling back. "Jesus," he hisses.
The sound of him swearing because of me sends a fresh wave of heat down my spine. I lean forward, tongue flicking over the hollow of his throat. He tastes like sweat, like salt, like man. I lick a line to his collarbone and bite, just hard enough to feel him jerk. "Sof—" he chokes out. I drown it out with a kiss. If I can't have him say my real name, I don't want a name at all.
His answer is an upward thrust that punches the air from my lungs.
"Oh, fuck," I moan, and this time, I don't try to hide it.
The sounds are everywhere now. My core swallowing his cock. His fingers digging into my hips. The rhythmic creak of the bed. His breath, rough in my ear. "You're soaked," he mutters, jaw clenched. "I can feel it. I can feel all of you."
I bounce harder now, faster. I'm a mess—sweat-slicked, mouth parted, whimpering with every grind. He reaches up, cups one breast, thumbs my nipple until I gasp. His other hand grips the nape of my neck, holding me in place so he can watch my face.
His thrusts turn brutal, hips snapping up to meet mine with punishing rhythm. He fucks into me like he's trying to carve himself into my bones. I feel it everywhere.
I lean in, lips brushing the curve of his neck, tongue tracing the salt there. My mouth moves across his shoulder, greedy now. I find the edge of the ouroboros tattoo, tongue following its shape like I'm decoding him with my mouth. I'm coming, clenching around him so hard I see stars, nails dragging down his chest, moaning his name in a voice I don't recognize. My head falls back. My vision whites out. The release crashes over me, drawn out and devastating, wringing every drop of sound from my mouth until I'm gasping, shaking, spent.
But he's not done, not even close. His hands shift, fingers tightening on my hips with bruising purpose, and before I can catch my breath, he growls, "Get on your back."