Page 43 of Vital Signs
I didn't understand the words, but that didn’t matter. The sound alone, that accent wrapping around syllables I couldn't parse, went straight to my nervous system.
"What did you say?"
His smile was wicked. "You'll figure it out. Or you won't. Either way works."
"Say it again." My voice had gone rough. "In French."
"Tu me veux," he repeated, watching my reaction.
My hips jerked involuntarily against his despite my softness. "Fuck. The way that sounds..."
"You like when I speak French?"
"Yeah." The admission came out strangled. "Keep doing it."
"Pauvre chéri." The words washed over me, meaningless and devastating.
I had no idea what he was saying. Could be praising me, degrading me, planning my murder in beautiful French phrases. The not-knowing was part of it. Being at his mercy even in language.
"Misha—"
"That's okay, baby." He softened his voice. "You'll find another way to please me, won't you?" He traced my lower lip with his thumb, then slipped it into my mouth.
My tongue immediately curled around it, sucking gently. The submission came naturally, easier than it should have.
Misha groaned as if I'd punched him.
This was different from the fentanyl. The drugs took control without asking. Misha was making me give it up willingly.
"Please," I heard myself say.
"Please what?"
I didn't have words anymore. Just need and heat and the overwhelming knowledge that I was letting someone take me apart, piece by piece, and I wanted it.
He pushed me backward, reversing our positions. "Take my shirt off."
I sat up immediately, reaching for the hem of his sweater. My hands were steadier than they should be, all that clinical training overriding the tremors. I pulled the fabric up slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. When the sweater cleared his head, I stopped.
The tattoos were beautiful, but underneath… Underneath were two perfect pink half-moon scars, faded, but still there.
"Jesus Christ," I breathed.
“You should see the other guy,” Misha quipped.
My hand came up instinctively, then stopped just short of touching. "Can I—"
Misha caught my wrists and placed them directly on his chest, on the ink-covered scars. The scars were smooth under my palms, slightly raised in places. I traced them gently, following the path the surgeon had taken. The petals of the cherry blossoms hid the worst of it, turning surgical necessity into something beautiful.
"They're part of me," Misha said quietly. "The scars. The ink. All of it."
"I know." My thumb brushed over a particularly thick line under the clockwork. "They're—you're—"
I couldn't find the words. Beautiful seemed inadequate. Perfect seemed like a lie. So I just kept touching, learning the landscape of his chest with careful fingers. I brushed my thumb over one of his nipples, and Misha's breath caught.
"That okay?"
"More than okay." He pressed into the touch. "Don't be gentle."
