Page 169 of Mine Again
The memory of that night crawls into my mind like a stain and leaves a sour taste. I push it away, burying it in the furthest recesses of my mind. It’s not something I want shaping this moment.
I lift my head off his chest and look down at my name over his heart and the butterfly next to it. The sight undoes me in a way no touch ever could.
He loves me. He really, really does.
Reaching out, I trail my fingers down his torso, tracing the outline of the butterfly marking our first year apart.
The ink is smooth beneath my touch, his skin burning hot beneath it, and when his abs tighten in instinctive response, the ache inside me deepens.
My nipples brush against his chest as I lean in closer, a spark rippling through my body. A sweet jolt of pleasure shoots straight through my core, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop the sound that wants to escape.
I press my lips to the butterfly. A kiss laced with more meaning than I know how to say out loud.
Following the line of his muscles, I kiss each mark of our time apart, tracing it with my tongue as I go.
My hand drifts up, my fingers following the curve of his shoulder. There’s another butterfly.
Perched on the outside of his biceps, its wings are half-open, as if it’s resting mid-thought. Elegant and quiet, but solid. Like it’s guarding him… us.
“We only got up to butterfly number three in your office this morning,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over the inked lines. “Which one was next?”
His voice is rough as his gaze follows my hand. “That one is year four.”
I shift to bring my chest against his side. The friction makes me shiver, pleasure spreading through my limbs.
Luca’s breath catches, just once, but his jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold himself together.
I want him to lose control. I want to see what happens when he finally stops waiting.
So I lick and kiss the fourth butterfly, too.
His arm tightens around me, and the subtle flex of his muscle and the low sound in his throat vibrate through his chest and straight into mine.
“And the last butterfly? The one from this year?”
Clearly, I can work out which one it is. There’s only one left, centered below his collarbones, where his chest rises and falls with every restrained breath.
But I want to hear it, need him claiming our love aloud.
He doesn’t answer, though. He just points to it, as if willing me to understand the marks on his body are words enough.
“This butterfly is different… lighter, almost in motion, as if it’s lifting off.” My fingers brush the delicate wings, their tips fading to white, a gradient of devotion made visible.
“This isn’t about pain anymore,” I say softly, studying the ink. “It’s about the part of you that never let go.”
He covers my fingers with his in the lightest of touches, his breath ghosting over my skin.
“It’s the part of me that loves you so completely that it outgrew the grief of being apart and just… rose.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words, my voice no more than a whisper.
“There’s hope in this butterfly.” I lower my mouth to it, pressing my lips against the ink.
His exhale shudders out, heavy with restraint. I can feel the effort it takes him not to pull me fully beneath him, to show me the depth ofhis love with his body.
“It’s more than hope. It’s determination. I decided on your birthday there wouldn’t be another one without me by your side, that this year you’d be mine again. No matter what.”
His hand slides along my waist, settling at the base of my spine, where his thumb draws a slow, possessive arc. My heart stutters in my chest, his words lodging deep.
