Sy looks pissed when he struts up to me, thrusting a finger in my face. “This is your mess. You’re setting up the mat.”
Even though he follows me to supervise–something that’s always annoyed the shit out of me–I take it like a man, wrenching open the supply closet. Like it’s not bad enough that she won’t even touch me, that she’ll hardly even fucking look at me, now this.
I can’t get away from my mistakes for one night.
But that’s the thing, right? It was more than one mistake. It was a series of them. The slow slide into not taking my meds. The paranoia. Chasing the mania instead of shutting it down. A million little infractions that snowballed into hurting the woman I love.
Grabbing one of the rolled up mats, I drag it out and across the floor to the ring and pretend like there’s not a tiny part of my brain still thinking about bailing out of here and getting high. At least my shoulder is almost better, barely giving a twinge when I heft the equipment out.
Some of the DKS boys watch me and Sy with curious eyes, and it picks at my awareness like a scab.
“They’re not used to it,” Sy mutters, helping me with the last mat. “Usually, the Dukes are…” He cuts me a dark look as we carry it across the gym. “Well, you know.”
“Free to fuck all the cutsluts they want,” I conclude, the words tasting sour and gray on my tongue. Glancing behind me to navigate, I add, “But we’re not other Dukes.”
Sy’s eyes harden. “No, we’re not.”
“And she’s not the usual Duchess.” I drop my end when we reach the ring, looking around to make sure no one’s in hearing distance. “You know what I don’t get?” I say, kicking the mat so it rolls across the flat surface. “I’m not trying to rub salt in old wounds or anything, but bro. You seriously fucked her up.”
His jaw hardens, eyes fixed to the ties on the mat. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Shaking my head, I explain, “Verity had to take her to the clinic. She spent four fucking days locked away up in that loft. Missed some classes, wouldn’t even read the books Nick brought her–”
Sy shoots up, snapping, “Get to the fucking point. I don’t want to hear that shit.”
I peer up at him, knocked off course at the outburst. His fists are flexing, shoulders high and tense. He looks like a man being hunted.
It’s not often I see Sy feeling guilty about something.
More carefully, I say, “You caused that, but she’s practically forgiven you.”
His eyebrows crash together. “And?”
I gesture between us, hesitant to say the words aloud. “You hurt her worse than me.”
Sy laughs, the sound low and joyless. “Is that what you think?” At my shrug, he crouches down to where I’m tying a strap. “Remy, come on. Lavinia’s practically been genetically modified to have the biggest inferiority complex in Forsyth. Her whole childhood was probably built around it.”
My face twists in confusion. “What do you mean?”
He rolls his eyes heavenward, as if he’s praying for patience. “I… hurt her, but I did it because I wanted her too much.” He glances around before adding, “You hurt her because you didn’t want her enough.”
I straighten, eyes flying wide. “That’s a fucking lie.”
“Hey, I know.” Sy holds his hands up, palms out, like I’ve got a gun pointed at him. “I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying that’s how she sees it.”
My chest feels like it’s been carved out, bit by bit. “She told you that?!”
He sighs, long and beleaguered. “She didn’t have to. I mean, dude. She got jealous because you said her sister’s skull was pretty. Think about how she grew up, always in her big sister’s shadow.” He shakes his head, looking tired. “Lavinia’s insecure and probably almost as possessive as Nick. I broke her body.” He arches an eyebrow. “You broke her heart.”
I claw my fingers through my hair, wishing I could feel something other than all this goddamn gray. “So fucking tell me how to make it right. What’s the secret?”
For the first time in weeks I see empathy on his face. “There is no secret, Remy, and until you figure that out, I don’t see anything changing.” He feels sorry for me. And Jesus Christ that just makes me fucking furious and lights a fire under my ass.
“Strap those down,” I tell him, pointing to the edges of the mat.
He whips his head around. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Marching away, I answer, “To make sure the Duchess is ready.”
I leave him there. I mean, this was his idea. He can set up the fucking ring. I cross the room, pushing the door to the training room open. Vinny is sitting on the table, no longer wearing her dress, but instead, a Friday Night Fury tank and a pair of tight red shorts. She only spares me a brief glance, body stiffening, before she tears her eyes away.
It’s been hard to look at her this past week. To see her skin and know I can’t mark it. To stare at her lips and know I can’t take them in a kiss. To watch her walk, that half finished snake tattoo on her leg taunting me.
I haven’t seen color in so long.
Nick is rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a roll of tape. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrow quirking, drawing the tattoo beneath his eye up.
“I’ll do that.” I hold out my hand.
Tonelessly, Vinny argues, “Nick can do it.” The lines of her face are set, hardened in a way I think I’d like to see under better circumstances, and her shoulders squared. A woman preparing for battle.
“I’m sure he can,” I reply. “But he’s not going to. I am.”
It’s forceful. Unapologetic. But that’s what we are. Vinny and I have never been nice to one another. We’ve just been real.
Nick tosses the tape to me and I catch it in the air. “I’ll be outside,” he says, bending to press a kiss to her temple. The glare he passes me on the way out lacks much heat, but I get the message.
Fix this shit.
I saunter over to the table, yanking off a long strip of tape as I search her averted eyes. “Hand?”
The soft, blue vein beneath her collarbone pulses. “Come to tell me not to beat up your cutslut?” she asks, fingers coiled tight by her side.
Ouch. Right in the heart.
Reaching out, I grab her hand, unbothered by the stiffness of it, and drag my fingers over her skin. My canvas. Perfect and smooth and delicate. It’s a stark contrast to my calloused, inked flesh. My hands are an artist’s tool, a fighter’s weapons. When I think of Vinny’s fingers, I imagine them caressing my hair, circling my cock, slowly tracing the designs on my skin after a lazy fuck. I don’t like the idea of them bruised and scabbed from a fight.
“I came to say that you don’t have to do this,” I say, running my thumb over a soft knuckle before pressing the tape over it. “She’s not really the one you want to hit.”
Vinny traps me with her blazing eyes. “If you think I don’t want to hit her, then you don’t know me at all.”
My eyes draw up–not on her, but around her. To the fuzzy edge around her ferocity. I think I might see something, a faint flicker of color emerging, but it fizzles out before I can decide.
I graze my fingers over her wrist and it happens again, the hint of color. She’s pissed. At me. At Haley. At the whole damn situation. I don’t mention it. I just keep wrapping, gently winding the tape over her knuckles, and hope for another flicker. She shivers and my eyes dart to her tits and her hard, pointed nipples.
“Too tight?” I drag my gaze to her face.
Her breath hitches. “I’m not sure.”
I whisper, “Make a fist.”
She does and I see that she has enough range, so I secure the ends by tucking them underneath. “If you need to kick Haley’s ass, I get it. I’m pretty sure I’d murder any man who touched you that wasn’t one of your Dukes. Assuming Nick didn’t get there first.” I swallow. Just like that night up in the clock room, I wonder how I’m going to let her go at the end of this task. It’s been so long since I felt her skin against mine and I’m so hungry for it. “Haley’s slow,” I offer, drawing it out. “She’s got shit for stamina. The jogging you’ve been doing with Sy should give you an edge.”
Her mouth pinches angrily. “Remy–”
“But if you’re hurting her to get back at me, it won’t work. I don’t give a shit about Haley.” I catch her eye, rubbing the pad of my thumb against the thin skin of her wrist. It’s indulgent and unfair, and I don’t give a fuck. “Maybe that just makes me a bigger asshole, but it’s true. I’ve already told her–she knows it. That’s why she’s being such a bitch to you.”
“How many?” she asks, another flare of color when she grits her teeth. It’s not quite red, but it’s also not blue. “Is this something I have to do every week, Remy? How many of those girls out there have you fucked?”
“None,” I answer. “None since you. Definitely none that matter.”
She turns her eyes on me. “Until the next time you’re mad at me?”
I freeze, my face twisting. “Vinny, you know how out of my fucking mind I was.” But that’s not what I want to say. It’s not an excuse. My shoulders sink. “There’s this saying–I’ve heard it a lot in that group Sy sent me to. My issues,” shyly, I tap my temple, “my… head issues, you know? They’re not my fault, but they are my responsibility. I guess I never really thought about that much.” My voice drops. “Not until you.”
It’s her turn to swallow thickly. “I’m not looking for another apology.”
“Good.” I tear off the tape. “Because I wouldn’t know how to give it.” I gave her the sky. I took her to the black and held her stars in my hands, and now black is all I see. “She crossed a line with you, and she has to pay. I get it. But it’s not going to change anything.” I touch her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Baby, I’m already yours.”
She leans out of my touch, sliding off the table. Her face is hard as stone. “You going to do the other hand, or what?”
Deflating, I reach out for her left wrist, searching like hell for another flash of color. “I’ve given you time. I’ve given you space. I’ve given you a complete lack of me. And Vinny?” I meet her gaze, knowing how agonized I must sound. “It’s fucking killing me.”
“I don’t care.” She yanks her hand back, snatching the roll of tape, and the furious flare of her eyes makes my face fall. “This isn’t a punishment, Remy.”
I step back. “Then what is it?”
“It’s me,” she answers, voice tight, “not ready to jump off that cliff again.”
If I were ever a literal person, I might think to tell her that’s a statistical improbability. But I’m not stupid. She’s not talking about the real cliff.
The lower seats are packed with DKS and cubs, cutsluts sprinkled throughout, and there’s a strange, hostile energy running through them. Duchess vs. cutslut? Loyalties run thick in West End, but there are rules–some unspoken, some explicit. None of them have the right to touch Vinny any more than the cutsluts have the right to the three of us.
“We should have sold tickets,” Nick mutters as we approach the ring. Hands clutching her waist, Sy helps Vinny up on the mat, spreading the ropes to give her space to ease through.
“Keep your shoulders up,” Sy tells her, climbing up on the edge to meet her over the ropes. “Watch your feet. And if you can get her into a grapple hold–”
“Choke hold,” Nick cuts in, jumping up to lean closer. “Did Sy teach you any leg takedowns?” He glances at Sy. “Any Muay Thai?”
“Would you be real?!” Vinny hisses, whirling to glare at them. “Nails, tits, and hair, guys. This is a chick fight, not one of your macho MMA matches.” She reaches up to gather her hair into a tight bun, hard eyes flicking across the three of us. “Maybe a few years of being unable to hold my own against men three times my size has confused you.” She narrows her eyes, challenging. “But I grew up fighting the meanest bitch Forsyth will ever see. That piece of trash over there doesn’t stand a chance.”
There’s a long, desperate groan, Nick’s head bowing. “Little Bird, please,” he begs, glancing up at her with tortured eyes. “My dick cannot get any harder.”
Even Sy reaches down to covertly adjust himself.
Personally, I don’t bother trying to hide what she’s doing to me, so when I climb up, I rest my elbows on the rope and try, “North Side bitches are fierce, but West End bitches are dirty. She won’t fight fair.”
“Good.” She tightens her ponytail, and even though she’s avoiding my gaze, I still feel her next words like a slap across my cheek. “Since when have any of us?”
Haley walks in, some of the cubs letting out loud whistles at her outfit, and this is what I’m talking about. Metallic gold sports bra with criss-cross straps across the back and matching skin-tight shorts get the boys in the stands all riled up. Haley will use that energy. Feed off the colors it gives her. She’s a cutslut through and through. All style, little substance.
But Bruce is waiting in her corner, pulling her close to whisper in her ear.
It prompts Nick to grab Vinny by the neck, yanking her in for a hard kiss. “To the victor, baby.”
I don’t miss her and Sy, giving me a lightning-fast glance.
Fuck.
I’m the spoils.
When Vinny pushes off the corner, hips swaying, arms loose, Sy sidles up to whisper, “I know having two girls fight over you is some bullshit drama that’s probably got you all twisted up inside.” He cuts me a haggard look. “But is this turning you on?”
I pluck the rope, voice mournful. “Painfully.”
He gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “To the spoils go the victor?”
Vinny reaches the center with a steel spine. Ballsack volunteered to referee, and he stands between the two girls, looking between them dubiously. “First one to cry mercy loses.”
The bell rings and he jumps back, which is a good thing because Vinny takes the first swing, fist flying in a blurry right hook. She connects, knuckles slamming into Haley’s chin with a loud smack.
Haley yelps, face turning red, and I know what’s going to happen before she even lifts a foot. Mouth pulled back in outrage, she lunges forward. It’s fueled by anger and hot humiliation, which is made all the more obvious when Vinny smoothly sidesteps the tackle, snatching a fist of Haley’s hair instead. She wrenches her head back, jabbing her knee into Haley’s side.
The crowd makes a sharp, sympathetic sound.
Sy and I share a look.
“Get up.” Vinny circles Haley on the mat, waiting for her to find her feet again. When Haley does, she strikes out wildly, grabbing at the strap of Vinny’s tank top. Vinny answers by slamming her palm around Haley’s wrist and twisting. Even from across the mat, I can see the indents of her fingernails, Haley growling as she punches her palm into Vinny’s jaw.
But not before Vinny jams her elbow into Haley’s chin.
The crack is a sickening sound, Haley stumbling back, and when she recovers, there are tears in her eyes, hot and bitter. My blood rushes at the contrast of it. The way Vinny moves on the mat is as precise as Nick, and as business-like as Sy. I know he trained that out of her. Striking out in anger. Letting the emotion rule you.
But I still see it glowing bright in her eyes when she lunges back, catching Haley in the throat.
Purple.
It blows me back like a gust from a freight train, settling over my skin like static electricity. My lungs stop working, wrung free of air as Vinny bends down, grabbing Haley by the shoulders and dragging her back to the center of the ring.
She wants everyone to see this.
“Get the fuck up,” she commands, planting the toe of her shoe into Haley’s ribs.
Haley struggles to her feet, expression murderous as she barrels into Vinny’s torso, taking her down to the mat. All around us, the cubs and cutsluts are reacting to each hit, each takedown, but uncertain. For some of them, this started as a joke. Two girls fighting, tits flying, bare legs locked. But now they’re seeing that it isn’t a joke at all.
Haley is West End, but Vinny is their Duchess.
They don’t know if it’s okay to cheer.
It only takes one more glance–one more bask–in Vinny’s purple to spur me into motion.
I climb up on the ropes, yelling, “Are you watching a fight, or jacking off? Come on, fuckers!”
One of the DKS in the back springs up, shouting, “I’ve got thirty on the Duchess!”
Another scrambles up to take the bet, while the cutsluts to my left begin cheering, “Kick her ass, Lavinia!”
I rally the non-believers as if it were my own fight, watching cubs and DKS–even a few cutcluts–pooling their money for the victor. “She didn’t become Duchess because of blood or sex appeal,” I bark, gesturing to where she’s pelting Haley with a chest-kick. “She fucking earned this shit!”
“Yeah!” Kathleen, another cutslut, jumps up to scream, “Haley fucked my boyfriend, too!”
Despite the speed, everything moves in slow motion, not the fight but the color. As the crowd finally shows up, banging their feet and fists with every hit Vinny lands, I finally let myself watch. They’re getting gassed out, little locks of Vinny’s hair falling in her eyes as she ducks and kicks, cheeks flushed a bright magenta. Blood is covering her mouth, dripping down her chin, but Haley looks worse, eyebrow split, lashes wet, a welt already forming on her cheekbone.
I was right about the stamina, though.
When Haley jolts forward to grab Vinny’s ponytail, she hooks her arm around Haley’s neck and drops.
Haley’s body slams tits-first onto the mat.
I can practically hear all the air getting knocked from her lungs, and if that wasn’t enough to seal the victory, then the way Vinny plants the sole of her shoe right into Haley’s neck, pressing down with all her weight, definitely fucking is.
There’s a long moment where the crowd roars, waiting for Haley to concede.
When she finally does, it’s with a sharp, frustrated punch at the mat. “Mercy!” she shrieks, then adds with a mutter, “You fucking psycho.”
Vinny looks sweaty, winded, and bruised as she releases her foot, eyes finally rising to take in the cheering crowd. The purple in her eyes dims, but never really leaves. It pulses to a beat that I feel in my chest, and when she walks the five paces to the ropes, everyone must feel it, too.
Because they go quiet.
Chest jerking with labored breaths, she calls out, “I know what you all think of me! My blood is North Side, so I’m a spoiled little Lucia, right?” Her mouth pulls into a bitter snarl. “I don’t have anything–anything–in this world I haven’t earned. I don’t have a bedroom. I don’t have a car. I don’t have a fucking family anymore.” Her eyes pass over them. DKS. Pledges. Cutsluts. “Maybe I haven’t earned your respect yet. Maybe I haven’t had the chance to earn your loyalty. Maybe I haven’t even earned the right to be in this ring. But these three?” She thrusts her hand out, stabbing a finger in our direction. “I’ve earned the right to call them mine! And you can fucking spread the word on that to all four corners.”
She spits, a glob of blood staining the mat, before marching back to her corner.
Where the three of us are waiting.
Nick is watching her like she just performed some act of divine grace, and Sy… he shines with pride, a smile tugging at his lips as he tosses her a towel. She catches it smoothly, ducking through the ropes, and the thing that gets me–the thing that makes my head fill with a fog of indignant confusion–is that she brushes right past me, not even sparing me a glance.
Why would she fight for me, for the right to call me hers, if she doesn’t want me?
“Nicky, get some ice,” Sy says, eyeing Haley slumped on the mat. “Remy, go check on Lavinia.”
I grit my teeth. “She doesn’t want–” But his glare is hard enough to make me relent. By the time I jump down, she’s already gone, having ducked into the cutslut’s dressing lounge.
I’m no pussy or anything. It’s not like Vinny’s the first girl I ever pissed off on account of my wandering dick. She’s just the first one I felt bad about. That’s the reason I pause at the door, psyching myself up like I’m about to go eight rounds with someone a lot bigger and scarier.
Flexing my fist, I push the door open carefully, quietly, figuring the element of surprise can’t hurt.
What I find inside makes my stomach drop. She’s in a chair at one of the vanities, shoulders slumped, back still heaving with hard breaths.
She’s crying.
Not like I’ve seen some girls cry, either. There’s no snot or sobbing or wrenching wails. She’s just staring down at her taped knuckles, tears tracking like raindrops down her pink cheeks. I stand in the shadow of the hall for a long moment, trying to decide what to say.
In the end, I say nothing.
“Get out,” she snarls, her eyes having found me. She reaches up to swipe angrily at a tear, jolting to her feet. “Get the fuck out!”
I step forward, the flash of purple building to a smolder. “Claim your spoils, Vinny.” I hold out my arms, defenseless and done. “Hit me, kick me, fuck me, I don’t care. But I’m not leaving until you do.”
What I get is a hard, jarring shove, her palms slamming into my shoulders. The weak one twinges with pain and it feels good. Deserved. “You’re such an asshole!”
I don’t disagree, planting my feet for the next push. It comes on the crest of a hitched breath, her face contorted with pained fury.
“I gave you what you asked for!” she screams, eyes wild and wet. “You said there was no going back, and then you–” Her words clip off into a growl, her curled fist banging against my chest. “You lied! You did!”
I stay still and expressionless, not needing her to remind me. That night in the rain might as well be tattooed into my flesh, a million pinpricks of light. Sometimes, I swear I can hear thunder in the distance, two celestial bodies meeting, as if we’d given a part of that moment to the universe to hold close, just in case we lost it.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back, Vinny. This will make you mine. Not just your body. Not just because you’re my Duchess. You understand, don’t you?”
I couldn’t say the words back then, didn’t know how to articulate a request so big and indefinable. I wanted the essence of her. The spark in her eyes. The fight in her heart. The pain of her touch.
I wanted her soul.
“Take it.”
Jesus Christ.
Sy was right.
When she strikes out, aiming for my shoulder again, I catch her wrist, surging forward to capture her mouth. She struggles and I clutch her upper arms, swallowing the sharp sound she makes, so quiet and full of despair. I push her back blindly, uncaring of where I’m leading her to, until we hit something solid. The jolt makes her push back, her teeth bearing down into my lip.
The metallic tang of blood just makes me grunt. This is what we are–what we’ve always been. Words can’t fix what I’ve done. Releasing her arm, I curl my palm around her neck, yanking her closer. Her fist jabs into my side, knuckles punching into the muscle, but she tilts her head, dueling with my tongue as though she’d rather hurt it.
The memory of that morning in my bed, when she bodily flipped me off of her, rings clear in my mind.
If she wanted to get away, she would.
The truth of it makes my blood rush hotter, and when I reach down to grab her thigh, I feel driven by something primal and bigger than either of us. I dig my fingers in and lift her, spinning to dump her clumsily onto the counter of the vanity. Aerosol cans clatter to the floor with hair brushes and bottles of weird, glittery stuff. The sound she makes is rabid, foot kicking out to catch my knee. It makes me stumble into the cradle of her thighs, my hardness crashing into her.
“I was yours, Remy.” Her breathless words are punctuated with her fingers, gripping a tight handful of my hair. “But I won’t be anymore. Not unless you’re mine, too.”
“I am,” I say, palming her tit aggressively–too hard. “I am, I am–”
It isn’t until she pulls hard enough at my scalp to make me growl that I let her go, hands frantically clawing at my belt. The last time I came, it was all awash with green and black and yellow, and I want nothing more than to clean it away with this. The blood, the sting, the supernova of purple as she fists my shirt, teeth grazing my tongue.
It all makes such a perfect sense to me that my head spins.
Words are colorless. Vinny and I are an arc of lightning in an endless expanse of black. We need the spark, not the void.
I shove my pants down just enough to free my hard, aching dick, and then I’m back to touching her, grasping her, mauling her. Hooking my fingers in her shorts, her body skates across the counter, colliding with mine as I violently yank the elastic down her hips.
She’s the one to get them off, though.
She flails out sightlessly, our mouths unwilling to part, and wrenches a single knee up to work them off. Even if I wanted to tease her, I couldn’t. Our bodies–our souls–are too magnetized for that.
I slam forward, entering her in one hard thrust.
For a second, everything stands still.
Our mouths hover so close that I can taste her panting breaths, her nails digging painfully into my hip. Her pussy is so tight and wet for me that my toes curl, my hand flying up to catch her chin when she throws her head back. The force of my thrust knocks her back on the counter, skittering away. The purple courses through me, and I curl a forearm around her waist, yanking her back for the next.
Our bodies collide like thunder.
“Do you want to hear it again?” I grunt, thumb digging into the damp flesh of her cheek.
Her face is tense, pinched in rapture, and when I punch forward again, she cries out, low and keening. “Fuck,” she spits, nails clawing at my hips. “Oh, fuck.”
“I love you.” I lick the words right into the crease of her lips, lapping up a smear of blood. “That’s not a fucking lie.” My words come bitten off between thrusts, voice full of red gravel. “It’s the truest thing I’ve ever known, Vinny.”
When she finally opens her eyes, I see it all. The ferocity, the hurt, the frantic, reckless want. Her ankles wind around me like a vise, clutching me close as I fuck her in a short, pounding rhythm. “You know what I want,” she says, voice breaking on the next slam of my hips.
“Whatever’s left of it,” I promise, knowing my soul is gray and tattered, “it’s yours.” It’s not what she deserves. I haven’t had time to fill it with color again, to show her the beautiful things it can make, if only it has her reflection to fill it. I do it anyway, my cock thickening as I bang her against the vanity, desperate to meet the rising tide.
My orgasm rips through me like a monster clawing itself free, and I hold her close–hard enough to press bruises into her hips–as I mouth my way to her ear. I give her the words she once gave to me so freely. “Take it,” I grunt, my cock surging to fill her.
She gasps, her pussy clenching around me as I fuck my cum into her. Biting down on a groan, my hand smacks hard against the mirror. It doesn’t stop. Wave after wave of cum, my cock jerking as it feeds it into her, so slick and warm. The only thing that distracts me from it is the sensation of her fingers, fluttering soothingly through my hair.
It feels like it lasts hours, emptying my balls–my soul–into her. Vinny’s pussy wrings me of every drop, her hips giving these little, mindless nudges into mine, like she’s afraid of losing what I’ve already given.
When it’s finally done, I turn my head to catch a glimpse of her flushed face, prying my hips free of her clutches. She makes a sharp sound, grabbing for me, but I’m already gone.
And dropping to my knees.
Hooking my hands around her thighs, I hitch her closer to the edge, glancing up to watch her heavy, glazed eyes. My lips brush over the star tattooed beside her hip as I count the points.
Real.
All real.
Hovering over the dark ink, I feel it most acutely here, the purple spark illuminating every corner of my mind. Her eyes crash shut, but she writhes eagerly when my mouth ventures lower. Her pussy tastes like heaven because it’s us. My cum is dripping out, so I lick it up for her, pushing it back inside with the tip of my tongue. It’s too much, though–so much that it rushes out, filling my mouth, hot and bitter.
I spring up instantly, grabbing her jaw, working the hinge of it open with my thumb. She stares up at me with a dazed expression, lips parting. When my own mouth opens, the cum streams right into hers and she shudders, clamping her palm around my neck to bring me closer. I taste it on her tongue as I push it inside, needing her to keep it–every drop.
Finally, she swallows.
“Remy,” she gasps, chest jumping with desperate breaths. “Please.”
The frantic little squirm of her hips sends me back down, my knees protesting as they land hard on the floor. Her clit is so ripe and swollen that I can practically feel it throbbing on my tongue. Any cum that’s left between her legs gets fucked back in with my two fingers as I bring her to the edge, tongue swirling wildly around her clit.
She comes with a soundless scream, her whole body seizing as she claws my hair, demanding more.
I feel her trembles all the way down to my marrow.
It’s only when she jolts, heel slamming into my bad shoulder–too sensitive–that I fall away, crashing back onto my elbows with an exhausted sigh. She looks like fine art when I raise my eyes, though. Thighs spread, pussy pink and glistening, face red and sweaty.
I’ve never seen so much purple in my life.
My eyes fall on the star, the memory of tattooing it there fuzzier than I’d like. But I remember the way she looked, so vulnerable, yet so impenetrable as I pushed the needle into her skin.
“Vinny.” When her eyes fall on me, soft and tired and warm, I feel higher than any pill could ever make me. “I have an idea.”
