Page 73 of Pocketful of Shame

"You better not even think about rubbing off to me, fucker –"

Catching Sketch's chin, I pulled his lips back to mine, successfully distracting him from falling into the trap of bantering with an unbeatable brainiac.

Keeping his lips on mine, he kissed me deeply as he slowly pulled his softening dick out, licking and nibbling at my lips to soothe the ache when I winced. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," he whispered in my ear as he rolled me on top of him. "I'll do better next time."

"I think you did pretty damn great this time." A deep breath escaped my parted lips and I reached up to brush his hair off his face. "So pretty," I whispered, trailing my fingers through his dark locks.

A deep hum came from his chest, like a lion purring in contentment. He leaned into my touch, lips moving to my wrist. Nuzzling the inside of my wrist with his nose, he pressed his lips to the skin covering my erratic pulse and kept them there. "This is it, Ro." His blue eyes were bright and locked on mine. "Too late to change your mind now."

"I don’t want to," I replied, snuggling into his chest, completely spent. Feeling more content than I had in years, I stroked my cheek against his chest and let my hand trail to his hip, fingers tracing his birthmark absentmindedly.

"You still like touching that thing," he mused, hooking an arm around my waist.

"Apparently. I still have no idea why," I shot back with a smirk, remembering how I had always been fascinated with his creepy birthmark. "It feels gross."

"That's because it's not a birthmark," Presley once again decided to join in on our private conversation. "It's a burn scar."

"The fuck is your drunk ass talking about?" Sketch chuckled. "I've had it since I was a baby."

"Then you were burned as a baby because that thing on your hip shaped like a T is the result of some deep tissue scarring."

Sketch snorted. "Sure thing, Dr. Quack."

"Wait –" Springing up in a rush, I threw the covers back and stared down at his marred flesh. "Holy shit," I breathed, eyes locked on his marred, uneven skin. "I think he's right, Sketch."

"No, he's not," he scoffed, covering us back up. "He's drunk and talking shit."

"I am right," Presley chimed in. "If that's been on you since birth, then you were marked at birth."

My eyes widened in horror. "Marked?"

Sketch shook his head. "It's bullshit. Don’t listen to him."

"When I first saw it, it looked like a scar from a branding iron," Pres continued, unaffected by Sketch's words. "I thought it was from some dumbass football ritual or other." A moment passed before Presley sat up. "Holy fuck." Eyes widening, he scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled towards us. "Show me that thing."

"Get the fuck away from me," Sketch warned, yanking me back down on his chest so he could cover us both with the blanket.

"Covers off," Pres ordered, unperturbed. "I need to get a closer look at that bad boy."

"Come any closer and I'll cut your dick off and feed it to you," Sketch snarled, glaring at Presley who was lurking at the foot of our bed. "I mean it, asshole. I ain't fucking around. Get out of here."

Out of nowhere, a dull, almost dreamlike flashback of a red-hot branding iron flashed in my mind, but I quickly blocked the image out, physically recoiling from the very notion.

"Ro?" Sketch asked, immediately noticing my reaction. "What's wrong?"

"Um, nothing." Shaking my head, I leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve what little clothes we'd been wearing. "I just need to… uh…" Tossing Sketch's boxers onto his chest, I kept my back to Presley and quickly shrugged on my shirt before climbing off the bed. "Use the bathroom."

"I'm gonna kill you," I heard Sketch growl as I hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me.

Chest heaving, I leaned against the door and covered my face with my hands, willing myself not to think about it. Tonot remember.

A dark room.

The boy.

Blue eyes.

The boy.

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