Page 40 of Hooked On Victor
Open.
Memorizing.
She felt every brush of his lips like scripture written on her skin.
“Rose,” he breathed against her.
Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing the hollow under his eyes. She felt the tension there, the tight lines of fear he carried in every glance behind them.
“Don’t be afraid to want this,” she whispered.
He shuddered.
His eyes flicked up to hers.
Desperate. Grateful.
He kissed her then like he was drowning. Like this was the last breath he’d ever steal from the world.
When he finally entered her, it wasn’t a sharp, sudden thing.
It was slow.
Heavy.
Inevitable.
He buried himself with a groan that felt like it cracked him open. She gasped softly, her nails leaving faint red lines down his back.
They moved together in a rhythm that had no hurry.
No violence.
Only need.
His breath was hot in her ear. Hers hitched with every slow thrust. The old bed complained quietly under them, the creaks like sighs from walls that had seen too much.
When they came undone, it wasn’t loud.
It was breathy.
Shaking.
A promise whispered into the dark.
Later, when Victor slept beside her, Rose lay awake listening to the wind whistle through cracked panes. The safehouse was cold without his body over hers, the stone walls leeching the last heat from the air. She pulled the old blanket tighter around her shoulders and sat up slowly.
Moonlight streamed through the crooked curtains, turning dust motes into tiny, silver ghosts. Shadows pooled in the corners like memories waiting to be remembered.
She moved quietly, bare feet padding across the rough wood floor, careful not to wake him. She paused at the fireplace, the soot blacker than the night outside, the mantle carved with an old, almost imperial flourish.
Her fingers hovered over the carving.
A double-headed eagle.
Same as the ink on his ribs.
She traced the lines slowly, feeling the cold bite of the stone under her fingertips. She paused over a small bump in the design.
