Page 53 of Pucked Up

He raised it to his mouth and kissed the scar near the base of my thumb. His lips were soft while his breath was still uneven.

He looked at me and bit down. It wasn't gentle. I didn't stop him.

The mark he left pulsed hot, nerves firing in every direction like the blood didn't know where to go anymore. I stared down at the teeth-print just below the scar, his bite nestled beside the memory of my father's grip from so long ago.

He'd kissed it first.

That mattered more than I wanted it to.

I didn't say anything. Neither did he.

We sprawled on the couch—me fully dressed with Noah naked beneath me. My shoulder ached more deeply now. It was a pain that would keep me up later, throbbing quietly with every movement. I didn't care.

Noah gently pushed me to the side.

I didn't ask if he was okay.

And maybe that was the point.

I gazed at him. His jaw was red where my stubble had scraped it raw, and his lips swelled in response to our intense kisses. He still had fingerprints on his wrists from when I'd held him against the wall.

He caught me staring. Didn't smile. Just nodded.

I exhaled and flexed my hand. It was the one he bit.

I liked the ache.

Noah stood up from the couch, slow and steady, his back to me as he bent over to grab his jeans. He pulled them and adjusted himself like it wasn't the most intimate thing in the world.

Before he left the room, he paused in the doorway and said, "You didn't flinch."

I didn't answer. I watched him walk away.

There was no pause. No glance over his shoulder. Only his back retreating down the hallway.

The guest room door opened and closed, and then he was gone.

The silence he left behind wasn't empty. It echoed like a room that had just been full of screams.

I didn't move right away. My hand still throbbed where he'd bit me, sharp and hot under the scar. He'd reawakened something there or maybe reclaimed it.

The air in the room tasted stale, a mix of sweat, smoke, and the sharp-metal scent of bloodless pain. I stood and headed for the hallway.

Not because I had something to say.

Something inside me wouldn't let him walk away without knowing I could still see him. I moved slowly and deliberately, letting him hear me coming if he was listening.

The guest room door was cracked open. Yellow light spilled through the gap, cutting a line across the floor like it dared me to cross it.

I did.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His hands were in his hair, holding, not tugging.

I leaned on the doorframe, not saying anything.

The floor creaked.

He didn't look at me, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "Do you ever feel like your body remembers shit before your brain does?"

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