Page 94 of Broken Pieces
That tiny flaw pulling at something buried deep, something I don’t have a name for. The part of me that wants to trace that scar with my thumb. The part that wants to kiss it.
She’s not all gloss and bullshit.
She doesn’t mask the things she’s been through or try to pretty them up for anyone else.
She doesn’t cake on fake smiles or hide behind layers of make-up pretending she’s never been touched by the world.
She wears it all. Quiet. Unapologetic. Real.
And fuck, that’s what makes her perfect.
I told myself last night it’d be gone. After I dragged my fucked-up tired body into the shower and wrapped my hand around my cock, jerking off to the memory of her scent, her mouth on me up on that rooftop.
I swore that’d be enough. That getting off would clear her out of my fucking system. But fuck, that was a lie.
I came fast, and this morning I’m still hard. Still strung tight. That same brutal want’s right there, clawing under my skin, begging to be fed.
She fucking undoes me.
Every look, every breath, every fucking inch of her makes me forget who I am. This girl could ruin me without even trying… and the worst part… I want her to.
I push up from the couch before she opens those eyes and catches me staring.
My steps are slow as I walk barefoot to the kitchen, the floor cold beneath me. I fill the kettle and flip it on. One of the few things I’ve bought in some half-assed attempt to make this place a home.
It still feels empty.
The cold bites at my skin.
I should throw on a shirt. A hoodie. But I don’t. The cold is easier to deal with than the heat pulsing low in my gut. It’s better than the hard cock I’ve been trying to ignore since I opened my eyes.
I reach into the cupboard and pull out two chipped mugs. They’re mismatched and rough around the edges, same as everything else in this place.
Behind me, I feel it… that shift in the air.
That quiet pause that says she’s awake.
I don’t turn around.
“You own any shirts?” Her voice is rough from sleep, but still edged with that attitude that I love.
I smirk at the counter. “Why? You jealous the couch got more action than you did?”
“Please. I’ve seen stray dogs with better manners.”
I glance over my shoulder, just in time to catch her eyes dragging over my body before she snaps them away.
“You sure about that?” I ask with a smirk on my face. “Because you’ve been staring at me for a solid three seconds.”
She snorts. “I was checking for lice.”
I grin. “Nah, you were checking out the goods. Don’t worry. It happens a lot.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I swear I hear it.
“Jesus. Your ego must need its own fucking postcode.”
The kettle clicks off.
