A starburst of raised skin across his left ribs, shrapnel, maybe, or something worse. A clean surgical line on his shoulder. A faded slash across his inner forearm that looks like a knife wound. And when he turns slightly, ink I've never seen. Dark lines across his shoulder blade, flowers cascading over muscle. Traditional. Japanese. A whole story written on his skin that I wasn't there for.
Twelve years written on his body. I don't have time to read them all tonight.
I hook my thumbs in my sleep shorts. Push them down and step out of them.
His breath catches audibly.
I'm in just cotton underwear now. Nothing sexy about them. Pale pink, practical, the kind you wear when you're not expecting anyone to see. I wasn't planning this when I got dressed this morning. Wasn't planning any of it.
But the way he's looking at me makes me feel like the most desirable woman he's ever seen.
His hand drops to the front of his pants. He palms himself through the fabric, adjusting, and the sight of that, the visible evidence of what I'm doing to him, sends a bolt of heat straight through my core.
He's losing control. Watching me strip and losing control.
I push my underwear down. Step out of them. Stand there naked in the lamplight with nowhere left to hide.
His eyes drop between my thighs and stay there for a long, charged moment before dragging back up to my face. His expression isn't disappointed or critical or any of the things Adrian's face used to show in the rare moments he looked at me at all.
He looks hungry.
"Kuso." The word comes out strangled. "Fuck, you're—"
"Don't." I step into him, palms flat on his chest, feeling his heart slamming against my skin. "Don't tell me I'm beautiful. Don't make this romantic."
Make this mine. Let me take instead of being taken.
"Then what do you want?"
"I want to do something." I curl my fingers into his chest hair, feel the rumble of his groan beneath my palms. "And you're not going to touch me unless I tell you to."
His breathing goes ragged. He nods once, jaw tight and tendons standing out in his neck from the effort of staying still.
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"No." Then, quieter, "Understood."
I shove him backward onto the bed.
He hits the mattress with a grunt, back against the headboard, and I'm climbing over him before I can second-guess myself. Knees bracketing his hips, thighs pressing against his sides, my body positioning itself exactly where I want it.
I'm in control. I need to be in control.
I kiss him first, hard, taking, demanding. My fingers find the button of his pants and work it open, then the zipper. He lifts his hips without being asked, desperate, eager, and I tug the fabric down just far enough to free him.
He's thick and flushed, straining toward me.
My hand wraps around him and he's hot and hard andmine.
"Angelina—" His voice breaks on my name.
"Hands on the headboard."
He obeys immediately. Fingers curling around the wooden slats, knuckles going white with the effort of holding on instead of reaching for me.
"Don't move." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Is this revenge?" His voice is strained, rough.