Page 167 of Broken Pieces
The words melt into me.
He sees me. All of me. And still he wants more.
I reach down, grip the waistband of his jeans and tug. “I want these off. Now.”
His grin is wicked, that signature bad-boy smirk creeping across his mouth. “Can’t get enough of my cock now, huh?” he teases, eyes gleaming with heat.
My fingers work fast. I pop the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down.
“Lift,” I tell him, my hands gentle even though my body’s begging to go faster. I know he’s bruised, broken in places I can’t see.
He lifts his hips, and I ease the jeans down along with his boxers.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, brushing against his lower stomach, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
He stretches out on the bed, hands folded behind his head, his body on full display, the bruises painted on his skin.
My gaze drags over him, tracing every line, every mark, until it lands on the ink over his chest. Black and bold, curling over the left side and disappearing up over his shoulder. A reminder that even in pain, something beautiful can live.
I reach out, tracing it with my fingers.
His skin reacts beneath my touch, goosebumps rising in the wake of my hand. This boy, bruised and so fucking stubborn, tough enough to survive anything, still shivers when I touch him.
He watches me, eyes soft in a way that suggests he doesn’t care how broken I am underneath.
He loves me.
That thought hits with the force of something I didn’t know I was waiting for.
I’d hoped.
God, I’d prayed in every silent second that he’d meet my eyes and carry the same weight in his chest that I’d been dragging around for weeks. That I wasn’t loving him alone in the dark.
And for the first time in forever, I don’t feel unloved. I am seen. Wanted. Held.
I undress quickly, then move forward. I trace my fingers up the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein that pulses beneath my touch.
He watches me through half-lidded eyes.
I lean forward, tongue tracing the length of that vein, tasting the heat of him.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice hoarse. His arms fall from behind his head, fists curling tight in the sheets beside him like the urge to take control is killing him.
I do it again, slower this time.
My lips glide over the thick ridge, my tongue flicking at the tip, and the restraint coming off him vibrates through the air. His stomach tightens, every muscle coiled, shaking with the need to touch, to fuck me.
His nostrils flare. “Skylar.”
He says my name like it’s some sort of prayer and a curse at the same time.
I look up at him, our eyes locking, and I see it written all over his face. He’d burn the whole fucking world down if I asked him to.
A startled squeal slips before I can stop it as he yanks me into him, crashing his mouth to mine. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s wild... desperate. His lips devour mine like he’s starved and I’m the only thing that’s ever made sense.
I sink my teeth into his bottom lip, hard enough to make him growl, needing more.
His tongue strokes over the seam of my lips with a hunger that borders on feral, tasting, claiming, demanding.
