Page 49 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron
"Ana girl," he'd breathed, voice wrecked, running his hand through her hair, "I've dreamt of this."
After they both were wrung out, he'd pulled her on top of him like she was a weighted blanket and refused to let go until sleep dragged them both under.
She did a quick stint in the toilet and brushed her teeth with the single wet toothbrush. If he could stick his cock down my throat, she could use his toothbrush, she reasoned. Now she padded to the full-length mirror.
Bruises. Fingerprints. Hickies. Like a roadmap of where he'd been. Her neck. Her hips. The dip of her waist. A trail of red splotches across her chest like war paint. And on her thighs.
She raised her hair to stare at the scar starting at the back of her neck, disappearing into her hair. A ragged line, slightly raised. Ugly. Stark against otherwise smooth skin.
She turned, angling toward the light, her fingertips touching it absently.
Then she heard the pad-pad-pad of bare feet on wood. She let go of her hair quickly and smoothed it back.
When she turned, Byron was standing in the doorway, shirtless, a half-empty water bottle in his hand. A faint sheen of sweat glistened across his skin like heat had followed him into the room. He looked like something out of a dream. Messy curls, bite marks on his collarbone, those lazy hazel eyes flicking over her body.
He leaned against the doorframe.
"Not that I'm complainin', love," he said, "but you've got no bloody shame, have ya?"
She flushed, suddenly aware of how very naked she was.
Reaching for the crumpled T-shirt draped over a chair, she pulled it over her head in one quick movement. Byron was already there, right in front of her, when her head emerged.
Close enough that she felt the warmth radiating off him.
He caught both her wrists behind her, effortlessly pinning her arms. “Don’t cover up on my account," he murmured, his voice low, rough-edged Mancunian velvet. "I've seen it all. Bit late for modesty, innit?"
Then he kissed her.
It was a slow, devastating kiss that brought her up to her toes, her tongue warring with his. One that started gently and grew possessive, his grip on her wrists tightening just enough to make her shiver. Her knees went soft, and he pulled back only when he was satisfied that she was dazed enough to forget her own name.
"That's my good girl," he said against her mouth.
He let her go, smacked her arse lightly, and turned away, casual like.
"Right. I'm makin' Nutella pancakes," he tossed over his shoulder, already heading toward the kitchen. "Need to fatten you up before your dad sees ya. Can't have him thinkin' I've been mistreatin' his daughter, can I?"
But then he paused at the door, turned, and came back.
She blinked as he climbed onto the bed and reached for her.
"C'mere."
He sat back against the headboard, tugging her down to straddle his lap, her legs thrown over his, her cheek against his chest.
His fingers tangled gently in her hair.
Slow strokes. The pads of his fingers massaged the crown of her head, moving in slow circles, tracing through the mess of curls. She practically melted into him, sighing as her eyes closed.
"I love your beard," she mumbled, her voice still scratchy with sleep.
"Do ya now?" he asked, amused. "Was thinkin' of shavin' it, actually. Bit of a faff."
Her head lifted sharply.
"Don't you dare."
"Alright, alright," he chuckled. "Bloody hell. That serious, is it?"
