Page 80 of There Are No Saints

His hair is incredibly thick, like animal fur. As he tilts his head, it brushes against my skin, soft and slightly damp.

Though I know he’s older than me, his skin is remarkably smooth. Maybe because he only forms expressions when someone is watching.

Almost all the animation in his face comes from those straight, dark brows. They remind me of shodo on pale white paper. In Japanese calligraphy, no two brush strokes are ever the same. So it is on Cole’s face—those brows are the ink strokes that give meaning to his bottomless black eyes.

He’s utterly focused on me, gaze lasered in, jaw tight. My breathing slows, matching pace with his. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

His beauty is mesmerizing. I’m watching him, not the tattoo gun. Feeling his touch, not the touch of steel.

He can feel me relax. He looks up into my face.

“I don’t know why you always want to fight me,” he says. “It’s so much more pleasurable to give me what I want . . .”

“More pleasurable for who?” I gasp.

“For both of us.”

He slips his hand down the front of my overalls.

I’m not wearing any underwear. I never did get around to washing my laundry.

His touch is gentler than I expected. I thought it would be as brutal as his kiss. Instead, it’s almost soothing . . .

His fingers slide over my pussy, searching, exploring. Testing . . .

He touches me here, there, waiting for a reaction. Seeing how I respond. When I lean against him, when my lips part, when I moan . . . he knows he found the right spot. He soaks his fingers inside me, then rubs me every place that feels the best . . .

The tattoo gun buzzes angrily against my ribs. It nips and bites, over and over, up and down, across the bone.

I hardly notice the pain. I’m leaned up against the wall, head tilted back, thighs parted. Letting Cole touch me wherever he wants.

He strokes my pussy like his own personal pet. He runs his fingers up and down my slit, sometimes plunging inside of me, sometimes rubbing circles around my clit.

All the while he’s drawing on my ribs, his left hand working separately from his right.

The pain enhances the pleasure, and the pleasure enhances the pain.

My skin is sweating, waves of sensation rolling over me.

I rock my hips against his hand.

I’m moaning. I don’t know how long I’ve been making that sound.

He’s found the spot right under my clit, the most sensitive bundle of nerves on my whole body. He’s stroking it with the ball of his thumb, over and over.

“Oh my god . . .” I moan. “Don’t stop . . .”

“Tell me you’re mine . . .” he hisses. “Tell me I can do whatever I want to you . . .”

I press my lips together, refusing to say it.

He bears down hard on the tattoo gun, biting into my flesh.

“Say it.”

I shake my head, eyes closed, mouth clamped shut.

He presses harder with the tattoo gun, and with his fingers under my clit. He strokes me hard, while drawing god knows what on my flesh.

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