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"You tried for sure. And, you had this tension in your jaw."

I kiss him again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against his, and then I pull back and start moving down.

My mouth touches his jaw, then his neck, then the hollow of his throat.

I kiss the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, my lips lingering there for a minute.

I kiss the other scar, the one across his shoulder, the one that sits right at the edge of a tattoo of a wolf that covers most of his upper arm. My tongue traces the line of it and I feel his abdomen quake.

"You're going to kill me," he says.

"Not yet. Remember not to move."

I move lower, and I watch him watching me. My dark hair is against his skin, my hands are spreading across his chest, my mouth following the lines of ink that wound across his ribs.

I avoid the bruise with careful precision, kissing around it, my lips warm and soft against the undamaged skin. The contrast between the pain on one side and the pleasure on the other is disorienting in the best possible way.

My tongue traces the edge of a tattoo on his stomach, a design of interlocking lines that wraps around his obliques. I feel his muscles contract under my touch. I look up at him, and the sight of him watching me is almost more than I can take. A slick warmth spreads between my thighs.

My hand lingers on his stomach, palm flat against his abs, just below where the bruising ends. He’s still watching my face and my thumb moves, a small, absent stroke across his skin.

"You're staring," he says.

"I'm assessing the damage."

"That's not what you're assessing."

"Shut up, Gage."

I smile.

I don’t move my hand. If anything, I press down a little more firmly, and his body responds.

I look up at his face.

"I can't help it. You're touching me."

I bite my lower lip, and his throat works. Right now, he can’t move without pain, and that should kill the mood, but the way he is looking at me suggested it hadn't killed anything at all.

He opens his mouth to say something, and I put my finger against his lips.

I start kissing down slowly and I follow the tattoos that curled up his sides and across his chest.

"I've wanted to do this," I say, my breath warm against his skin, "since the first time I saw you through that window."

"You could have just knocked."

"Where's the fun in that?"

I keep moving down, my lips leaving a line of heat across his body. My lips find the ridge of muscle above his hip, and I bite gently, just enough to make him suck in a breath. My hands slide down his sides, fingertips tracing the V of muscle that angles downward. He’s hard and aching and trying very hard not to move. I pull the blanket away from his hips, being careful of his wounds. His hard cock jumps to attention, ready to go.

"Still with me?" I ask.

"Barely."

I chuckle, and then wrap my hand around his huge cock

My grip is firm and deliberate. I hold him like I know exactly what I’m doing. Which I do. I stroke once, slowly, and feel his hips try and rise. I push them gently back down.