Page 61 of Moth
Chapter Thirteen
“Shit.”
I roll over to face a pair of black eyes that reluctantly meet my own.
“Shit,” he says again, but there doesn’t seem to be any regret in his tone. Just shock. Maybe some confusion. Along with a dash of anger as his gaze cuts to mine, blazing with intensity. “I didn’t use a condom—”
“I’m on birth control,” I admit with a sigh. Thank God for the abnormally heavy menstrual cycles, which led my mother to suggest I take them all through my teen years, rather than out of any fears of unprotected sex.
Wincing, I brace one hand against the floor and push myself upright. The weight of everything we’ve done threatens to descend, but I’m too tired. Too tired to worry about the other implications of unsafe sex, such as a potential STD or…
I can’t worry about any of it.
“You’re a virgin,” he rasps, sitting with his back to me. His tattoo looks different, and it takes me a second to understand why. Smears of ink streak his skin—which make the dragon seem more like a shapeless splotch of darkness with glowing red eyes than anything cohesive.
“Your boyfriend?” he asks next, his tone hard. “You haven’t been fucking him?”
My lips part. Now could be the time to come clean and admit the truth. But as the breath escapes my lips, he scoffs, drowning out any confession I may voice.
“You were saving yourself, is that it?” he wonders, coming up with his own assumptions. “I’ve met girls like you before. You want to lose your cherry to some one-night stand you’ll never meet again. Get it over with for when you meet that cop or doctor you want to marry.” He chokes out a sound between a groan and a laugh before falling silent. For the longest time, he doesn’t move. Then… “Did you tell him about me?”
This time, I can’t maintain a lie. I shake my head. “No.”
He stands in one swift motion, still unabashedly naked. His hand catches my wrist, pulling me upright as well. “Come on,” he grunts.
Cool air tickles my skin as I let him lead me through a narrow hallway at the back of the shop, then up a flight of stairs. To another roof? No. The door at the top of this staircase opens into a completely different space. An apartment? Before we cross the threshold, he flicks a light switch that triggers the fluorescent bulbs built into the ceiling.
The glow illuminates a modest living room decorated in shades of red and navy. It’s decently furnished with a degree of coordination I wouldn’t expect from him. A leather couch and flat-screen television dominate the space, and I can make out a kitchen with modern appliances and plenty of windows with a view of the street below.
The bathroom we eventually enter is no less impressive, nearly triple the size of mine. Black tile flooring and silver fixtures create a sleek, modern style. He has a walk-in shower with a built-in bench, large enough to hold us both with room to spare.
Once I enter the stall, he follows, buffeting me back against the tiled wall. Only now does it sink in what we’ve done. I’m sore. His bottom lip is bleeding. There’s blood streaked along my inner thigh—though I’m not sure if it’s mine or his. A glance at his leg reveals that his stitches are intact for the most part, but he’s bleeding freely through them, limping as he turns to the faucet and switches it on.
I watch him operate the nozzles, waiting for the regret. The shame. That’s how intimacy should feel, isn’t it? Shameful. Especially when his eyes are on my naked body, and mine are on his…
Yet all I feel is a sensation comparable to the moment I finally escaped Branden’s. Like I can breathe again. Like every inch of my skin prickles with awareness, electrified, and not numb.
I can feel everything at this moment. Like the ice-cold water shooting from the faucet as he finally succeeds in turning it on. The shock draws me closer to his heat before I can stop myself. He goes rigid, only to grip my hips a second later.
And…I almost feel some semblance of the peace I’ve lost. There’s no phone in here. No Branden. No guilt.
But around him, that clarity only seems to come in brief snippets. I’m left shivering when he pulls back, leaving me to stand on my own, and turns to a small plastic bin placed against the wall. From inside it, he takes out a bottle of generic body wash and a carefully folded piece of terry cloth. “Turn around.”
I do. The spray of water plasters the hair to my head, muffling the sounds as he comes closer. I feel his touch first—a warm hand that runs down between my shoulder blades, trailed by that rough cloth. I glance down to notice that the water pouring from me is a purplish color…and then eventually a diluted gray as he continues to wipe the ink from me, erasing his marks.
When he’s finished, he wordlessly hands me the cloth—my turn. I face him and swallow hard as I take him in. He’s sobigcompared to me, seemingly invincible. As I drag the cloth along his forearms, I notice the scratches, though—the bite marks.
He might as well have been attacked by an animal. I finger a bleeding wound, in particular, and my teeth clench in guilt. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re not,” he snaps, batting my hand away. “You loved every fucking minute of it. Besides, I think I like you psycho, bunny.” He strokes my cheek until I look up. He stares back, unflinchingly, once again, not bothering to hide the truth. “I think I like it too much…”
I don’t know who moves first, but our lips collide again. We stay like this for a second. Longer. Then he breaks the contact to let me continue with the cloth.
It’s harder to wash the ink off him. The swirls of his tattoo make it nearly impossible to know what’s inked into his skin and what sits on top of it. I try my best anyway, observing him through touch with the same fervent concentration that my gaze takes him in with.
He’s speckled with a million scars, most of them disguised by the harsh outline of the all-encompassing dragon. I can’t stop myself from tracing the edge of one with the pad of my finger. When I toy with another, he gently pulls my hand away.
He has me pressed against the stall before I know it. Burning and soft, his lips feather over mine, hesitant at first, then firmer and hungrier. Steam floods the small space as our breaths devolve into pants. Soon, I feel him hardening against my thigh…between my legs.
