Page 94 of Roulette Rodeo
He thinks the way I think.
His lips press to the inked petals, soft and reverent, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.
When was the last time someone touched me with tenderness instead of hunger? Who wished to learn about the rooted meanings of the ink upon my flesh that I got out of vengeance and desperation? It was such a long shot asking him to be the one to take my first, but instead of rushing it like I’m sure any Alpha would, he’s genuinely treasuring each moment.
As if to truly make it memorable for both of us.
"My turn," I say, needing to shift the focus before I fall apart completely.
I roll back over, drinking in the sight of him. Where do I even start? He's a masterpiece of contradictions—scars and ink telling stories of violence and beauty in equal measure. The bullet wound on his shoulder, puckered and angry, even healed. The surgical scar is low on his abdomen, precise and thin. Claw marks across his ribs that speak of enemies with more than bullets.
"You're like a map," I whisper, reaching up to trace the compass rose over his heart. "Every mark is a place you've been, a battle you've survived." My fingers find the dates inked on his ribs. "People you've lost?"
He nods, jaw tight.
"They're still with you," I say softly. "Carried on your skin, close to your heart. That's beautiful, not flawed."
I feel like I’m talking to myself more than him, hoping my words do encourage him in someway while reassuring myself those same words with my own insecurities.
My hands continue their exploration, learning the geography of him. The dog on his bicep—Duke, I realize now, rendered in photographic detail.
"You love that dog more than most people, don't you?"
"Duke doesn't judge," he says simply. "Duke doesn't expect me to be anything but what I am."
"Smart dog." I trace the V of his hips, watch his abs contract at the touch. "I can't wait to learn more about you. All these stories written on your skin. And maybe..." I grin up at him. "How to chop a log without looking like I'm trying to murder the tree."
That surprises a laugh from him, breaking the tension.
"I'll teach you. Though you'll need better boots."
"Hey, your boots are very comfortable," I protest. "Like wearing boats on my feet."
He grins and leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that's slow and deep and thorough. This is him trying to do slow, I realize, and it's devastating. His tongue traces mine like he's memorizing the taste, his teeth catch my bottom lip just hard enough to make me gasp.
Then his hand is between my legs again, and slow goes out the window.
"Fuck," I breathe against his mouth as his fingers find my folds, already slick and swollen. The sound they make as he explores is obscene in the quiet room, wet and needy.
"So responsive," he murmurs, watching my face as he slides one finger inside. The stretch is foreign but not unwelcome, my body clenching around the intrusion. "Christ, you're tight."
"Not exactly had anything up there before," I manage, trying to breathe through the sensation. It’s a bit scary now. To finally do the deed that seems to be some prized possession to anyone who hears it. To finally taint this flower with a man who knows me for more than my stage name or a night fling. A man who smells so fucking good, who’s doing things at a pace that doesn’t make me want to run for the hills.
"Relax," he says, his free hand stroking my hip soothingly. "I want you nice and wet, so this feels good."
He works me with patient skill, that one finger moving in ways that make my back arch off the bed. When I've adjusted, he adds a second, the stretch burning just enough to ride the edge between pleasure and pain. His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make me see stars.
"That's it," he praises as I moan, no longer caring about dignity or control. "Love hearing you. Love watching you fall apart for me."
His fingers move faster, deeper, hitting spots I didn't know existed. I'm climbing, spiraling higher with each stroke, each press of his thumb. My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as the pressure builds.
"You're going to come for me," he says, and it's not a question. "Going to take every inch of me after, ride through your first blissful high, gripping my shoulders and screaming my name."
"Shiloh," I whimper, because he's right. I'm so close, teetering on an edge I've never approached before. "Please, I need?—"
"I know, Little Cherry. Know exactly what you need from me, and you’ll get it."
His fingers curl inside me, hitting something that makes my vision white out. I come with a cry that's probably too loud, my body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me. It goes on forever, each pulse dragging another sound from my throat, until I'm boneless and gasping beneath him.
