Page 97 of For Fillies and Monsters

I shift, moving my body lower so that I can ask him about the artwork he chose to representusall those years. Ten tattoos for ten years—the magnitude of the actions hitting me in thechest once more. He’s always known me—saw me—and never once turned away. Never once wanted something different, or“better”.

My voice is thick with emotion as I trace the outline of a filly on his calf. “What’s this one for?”

“The year I gave you your nickname—the year I knew you were wild, free and unbreakable—looking for adventure in life, same as me.”

I nod, his perception of my own strength giving me courage, and a dose of heady power courses through my veins. I take in the tornado twisting around the outside of his calf, and a four-leaf clover made up of horseshoes around his kneecap. I pause, drawing around a small crop of spruce trees on his upper thigh. “And this one?”

“For Colorado—the place I found you, and the place you found yourself. Where you grew tall and proud and unbendable, even in extreme circumstances.”

I pause, sucking in a shaky breath, my finger tracing an achingly familiar poppy near his ankle, this one black and gray where mine is orange and green, and flick my eyes up to his. He smirks, shifting his hips. “I made the guy give me the exact same design you got. He didn’t want to—something about artist integrity or whatever—but I promised I’d beat him up and dump him in the dumpster out back if he didn’t do it. So, we agreed, and he did it.”

I giggle, shaking my head—the sentiment isn’t lost on me, the achingly affectionate way he tried to hold on and connect with me, even from afar.The actions,over and over. The blinding,permanentshow of devotion.

On his upper thigh, under the words ‘til death’ are a pair of old-timey pistols, and on the outside of his thigh is a portrait of a girl’s back, her hair braided, horns protruding from her head—I hate to admit it, but the outline looksawfully familiar to my own. I raise a brow at him, and he only winks.

My heart and stomach do alternating somersaults, and I fidget, unfamiliar with just how perceptive the mural is—how perceptive this seemingly dark and dangerous man is. He’s my exact equal in every way: rough and broken on the outside, but filled with a violent need to love and be loved. Even if it’s madness to anyone who might look upon our love, it feels like nothing but peace. It is acceptance in its purest form.

I rotate his leg, noting the coordinate on the back of his knee, and a bleeding barbed-wire heart on the back-side of his calf, before I halt, finding the only writing-based tattoo, a scribble I now know is his handwriting, on the far inside of his thigh. It had to be painful—it’s the most sensitive spot; so far up it’s near his ass and underside of his balls, right above a thick, purple vein.

I smirk, tapping the writing. “Cute. This might be my favorite. Did you just get it?” It’s still slightly raised, the flesh pink around it. He stares at me for several heartbeats, and my smile slips, self-consciousness coursing through me.

Did I offend him? Tease him too much?

And then his lips spread, that very rare, very beautiful smile claiming his entire face. “Naw, I got that one first—ten years ago. I just get it touched up every year.”

I look back down at the letters, my heart now lodged painfully in my throat. This is the most coarse and crazy of them all—and yet the most beautiful. The one with the most meaning.

“Stetson Dobbs,” I whisper, the words feeling way too soon and yet ten years late.

“I’ve always known, Stetson. Always.”

My pulse hammers, my emotions a tornado of love and lust spiraling, pushing me over the edge.It’s all so much.I need him now. I need him inside of me like I’ve never needed anything.

I groan, hips spinning in a teasing circle, and then slide up his body until my mouth is level with his glistening tip. I lick my lips and then flick my eyes to his. He’s holding his breath, his chest quivering.

“I need you now,” I whisper hoarsely, and any teasing evaporates from Gus’s face.

“Take what you need, baby.” His voice is strangled, and I smirk at my power.

“I wonder if you will taste as good as I remember.” His eyes darken, realization dawning on him that I, too, remember our masked night together all those years ago. When he first became my monster. The words hang between us, but neither of us reaches out to express them—not right now. There will be time later for talking.

I dart my tongue out, licking the bead of precum from him, and take it into my mouth. He hisses, his hips flexing. “Mmmm.” My warm breath fans across him, and I can see his control slipping.

Good.

“Stick me in your fucking mouth, Stetson.”

I smile instead, licking his balls, my tongue flat, tracing around each hard bulb, and then up the length of his shaft, swirling it around the top.

“So greedy,” I whisper, and he stills. I know he remembers just how viciously he tortured me with those same words. I can’t help but chuckle, eliciting a matching growl. I peer up at his eyes again, his face hard and clenched.

He’s trying so hard to be a good boy for me. I guess I should reward his efforts.

Opening my mouth, I swallow his length, my hand holding him straight and erect for me until he slams to the back of my throat. I gag, eyes watering, but keep pushing, exhaling through my nose, and swallowing slowly to take more of him.

“Fuuuccckkk.” His chest vibrates with the word, and I push farther until my lips meet the base. I pause, allowing my throat to adjust, water still leaking from my eyes, until I can feel his legs shaking beneath me.

I punish him the way he did me: by sucking his soul from his body. Slurping, drool pooling at the base of his cock, I bob faster, my hand working in tandem by rubbing his balls between my fingers.

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