Page 63 of Twisted Violet
“If it matters to you, it’s matters to me.” He says, lifting our still-joined hands and pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
And somehow, it feels more intimate than everything else we did tonight.
We stay wrapped up in each other beneath the stars, the whole world quiet for once.
Just us.
No fear, no guilt, no past clawing at the edges.
Only this moment and the guy who held my hand the whole way through it.
TWENTY-ONE
VIOLET
It’s beentwo days and my moth tattoo still looks fresh enough to fly off my skin.
The edges are sharp, the fine lines are clean, and every little detail is perfect.
I run my fingertips over the ink and smirk.
I can’t believe I actually did it.
I look up and catch Niko standing in the doorway, leaning against it like he’s been watching me for a while.
His eyes flick to my stomach. “How’s it healing?”
“Good, I think.” I say, lifting the hem of my shirt higher.
He pushes off the doorframe and stands in front of me to get a better look.
His fingertips trail across the curves of my lower stomach and skim the edge of the tattoo. His touch is light, careful, but it sparks heat deep in belly.
“Looks good.” He says, his voice low. “Healing fast.”
I swallowand smooth the fabric back down.
There has to be something wrong with me.
Ever since we hooked up, it’s like I notice every little thing he does now. Every touch. Every gaze. Every smile meant just for me. All of it sends my heart rate skyrocketing.
It wouldn’t be as embarrassing if I knew he felt the same, but I don’t know how he feels because we haven’t talked about it yet.
Not when we passed each other in the kitchen yesterday morning. Not when watched T.V. together last night.
Now he’s standing here, smelling good, looking dangerously beautiful as ever, and my brain is completely stalling out around him.
“Something’s on your mind,” he says, like he’s pulling the thought straight out of my head.
I force a shrug. “Not really.”
He moves before I can blink. One second there’s space between us, the next my back is pressed against the wall. Not hard, but enough to feel the message in it.
He plants both hands on either side of my head, caging me in like a wild animal.
“What is it?” He asks, though it feels more like a demand than a question.
My pulse spikes. “Nothing.”
