Page 57 of Drawn to Death
His hands aren’t greedy. They’re careful. They slide under my shirt, reverent, making my throat tight. Every touch is a question. Is this okay? Do you want me? Can I have this too?
My body answers for me: yes, yes, yes.
I raise my arms, letting him pull my shirt off. It lands somewhere behind us. The night air hits my bare skin, goosebumps everywhere, and he smooths them away with his palms. His fingers find my spine, tracing each notch like he’s cataloging me, even though he’s done this before.
“I want to see you,” he says, voice rough.
I nod, helping him with his shirt. He’s all scars and muscle, a map of a life I’ve only seen in flashes. I press my hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering under my palm.
“I keep drawing this,” I say, tracing a scar that runs from his shoulder to his sternum. “Not because it hurt you. Because it’s part of you.”
Something softens on his face. He catches my hand, kisses my palm, charcoal stains and all.
“You see everything,” he says against my skin.
“I want to.” My voice wobbles. “Not just the death. All of it. Every part.”
He eases me down onto the sheets, covering me with his body, careful with his weight. The cotton is cold against my back, but he’s hot above me. My legs part, making space, and he settles in like it’s where he belongs.
His mouth finds my throat, lips tracing the line of my pulse as it speeds up. I arch into him, hands sliding down his back, feeling the shift of muscle under skin, the places where old wounds have healed into ridges and valleys.
I used to think surrender meant being broken. Defeated. Giving up the fight, letting someone else take the wheel. But now, as I let myself yield to him, it’s not about giving up at all. It’s about being seen. Known.
Time doesn’t move right. It stretches out. Our clothes vanish, piece by piece, every button and zipper undone with careful, unhurried hands. He touches me as if he has all the time in the world, learning my body with a patience I don’t know how to accept. Finding the places that make me gasp. The places that make me want more, even as I try not to rush.
“Tell me what you need,” he breathes against my collarbone.
What I need. Not what he wants to take. Not what he thinks I should give.
The question itself is a gift, and it makes something in me ache.
“Just this.” I take his hand and press it to my chest, right over my heart. He can feel it hard and fast under his palm. “Just you. With me. Right here.”
He looks at me, really looks at me, and then lowers himself so our bodies line up, perfect. The first slide of skin on skin pulls a sound from me, not pain, not pleasure exactly, but something raw. Like I’ve found a missing piece of myself.
He isn’t Talon. He isn’t Alfie. He’s mine. This man who moves so carefully. Whose hands cradle my face like I’m something precious. Whose eyes never leave mine, even when he’s inside me. He belongs to me as much as I belong to him.
I hook my legs around his hips, pulling him in, pulling him close. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mixing in the tiny space between us. Outside, the waves keep rolling, steady and relentless, a rhythm that matches the slow rock of our bodies.
My body opens for him, slow and shy, like a secret finally told, and he pushes gently inside. We find a rhythm, though each thrust steals my breath a little.
“Need you so bad,” I gasp.
“I’m here,” he says, voice rough. “I’m right here with you.”
And he is. All of him. Nothing held back. Nothing hidden. Just us, moving together in the dark, finding a rhythm that feels like it’s always been there.
I’m not a ghost in someone else’s story. Not a vessel for visions. Not some tool for death. I’m just a man, holding and being held, loving and being loved. Every touch is sharp and clear, the scrape of his calluses, the salt taste of his skin, the weight of his hand on my chest.
We speak in touches, in kisses, in little wordless sounds. Asking and answering. Giving and taking. The heat builds slowly, inevitably, but it’s not the point. It’s just part of it. Each kiss, each quiet “yes,” is its own kind of perfect.
When he pushes deeper inside me, I gasp and grab his wrist where it braces beside my head. It’s too much, almost. Not just physically, but in the way our edges blur. His breath is mine. My heartbeat is his.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he says, voice shaking. “Stay with me.”
I hadn’t realized I was drifting. I force my eyes open, and find him above me, flushed, eyes wild and soft at the same time. Moonlight from the window turns him silver, almost unreal.
“I used to draw death,” I whisper. The words tumble out before I can stop them. “But now… now I’m drawing you.” My voice cracks on the last syllable, emotion burning somewhere low in my chest. “I’m drawing life.”
