Page 64 of Undisputed Chaos
I unbuttoned it completely, shrugging it off my shoulders to give her full access. Her breath caught as she took in the full canvas of my body—every scar, every line of ink, every story etched into my skin.
When her fingers brushed over a particularly sensitive spot near my ribs, where ink covered old scars, I couldn't suppress a low rumble.
"Like this?” she asked, confidence growing in her voice.
"Just like that, angel."
"They're beautiful," she whispered, fingers following the path of chains that wound around my ribs. "Like art."
"That's what they are," I agreed, catching her hand and pressing it flat against my heart. "Stories, memories, pieces of me."
With a playful grin, I scooped some strawberry ice cream onto my finger and smeared it across my abs. "Want a taste?"
Her eyes darkened, and with a boldness that made my cock throb, she leaned down and licked the melting cream from my skin, her tongue hot against the cold trail.
I hissed, one hand fisting in her hair.
"Fuck, angel," I groaned as she continued, her tongue tracing the lines of my muscles, following the paths of my tattoos.
Most of them covered old scars, but she didn’t flinch. She just… worshipped.
She looked up at me through her lashes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Good?" she asked, and the innocence mixed with mischief nearly killed me.
"So fucking good," I assured her, voice stuck somewhere between a laugh and a confession.
I pulled her up for a proper kiss, tasting strawberry and all the years between bruises and now.
She glanced at me, wicked and soft all at once, as she ran another streak across my ribs, this time lemon yellow from the sherbet.
"Stay still," she ordered, and holyfuck, I would have let her tattoo me with fire if she asked.
She painted me—strawberry pink on the skull, mint green on a spiderweb, cookie dough art over my chainwork, orange and rainbow blended in with the shapes dotting my pectorals.
She used her hands, laughing softly when the colors began to melttogether over warm, inked skin. Every brush of her finger was gentle and reverent, turning scars into art.
I let her, holding so perfectly still, like a criminal desperate not to disturb the scene.
“Look at you,” I joked, voice full of something too big to hide, “making art on an imperfect canvas.”
Then, softer, almost afraid to say it out loud, “You know you’re the only person who’s ever touched these like they mean something.”
She just kept painting, face flushed, eyes taking in every line. “Every mark on you… It’s beautiful,” she corrected, voice hushed, a confession in a world that never gave us softness for free.
A grin broke free and let her run wild, let her make art out of me, let her skate yellow, mint, and pink across the dark ink, across skin I turned into art.
I wanted her to see how feral she made me, how close I was to breaking. I wanted her to know that for every scar and stain, I’d spend my life letting her repaint my story.
When she finished, she set her spoon down and ran her tongue over a stripe of strawberry running under the barbed wire at my hip.
I hissed, jerking, unable to hold back the savage laughter spilling from my lips. “You’re playing a dangerous game, angel," I warned, but it came out totally wrecked.
She smiled back, all innocence and wildness, then bent lower, tongue tracing every melting color with painstaking attention, licking me clean, and leaving trails of heat in her wake.
The closer she got to my waistband, the harder I had to clench my fists, fighting every last instinct not to flip her over and show her how a caged thing loves—hungry and grateful enough for a lifetime.
When she finally licked up to my chest, she pressed a kiss to my sternum, then drew back, examining her work as if admiring a finished painting.
“You’re a masterpiece, Adrian,” she whispered.
