Page 49 of Painted Scars
“I won’t hurt you, Glitter Bomb,” I murmur into her ear. “I’ll make you safe and worship you. Every part of you belongs to me.”
She squirms and fights me.
I drop my arms to my sides. “Talk to me.”
She crawls off me, and my dick deflates. The quiet ache of something deeper spreads between us.
“I’m sorry.” I shift to leave. “I’ll go.”
She catches my bicep. “No, stay, please.”
Her shoulders hunch, and her eyes drop to the comforter. I don’t move and let her speak.
“I was sexually assaulted a few years ago,” she admits.
“Who hurt you, Glitter Bomb?” The snarl that rips from me surprises me.
She glances up, almost smiles like she wants to soften the moment with humor. “I know wanting a sexual encounter like this is ludicrous.”
I inch closer. Listen and don’t touch. Anchor myself in her voice.
“This dynamic between us.” She gestures between us. “It’s more than danger for me. It’s about control and safety. Choosing when, how, and who. Creating a space where I call the shots in a controlled environment.”
I pull her to my chest. “What makes you think you’re safe with me?”
Her finger traces my visor, and I feel the echo of her warm hand. “Because you’re an antihero.”
A rough chuckle escapes me at her logic. “That’s not how morality works.”
“It does for me. You sneak around, go through my things, set up cameras, and replace my vibrator.” She sniffs, clearly salty about that, and I note her observational skills. “But antihero ends inhero.” Her palm presses over my heart. “And as crazy as it sounds, I believe there’s some good in there.”
“You’ve got a distinctive world view, Glitter Bomb.” I clasp the back of her neck and rest her head on my shoulder.
She lifts her chin, eyes meeting the dark sheen of my visor. “So be my moral stalker,” she says softly, “until I’m ready for the next step.”
Brave little thing hands me trust in the only way she knows how. I’ll burn every line I’ve drawn to give it to her. She curls her fingers over my wrist, lifting my hand and lowering it carefully over her eyes. Trusting me. Giving me permission. Facing her fears. The fire in my chest lights into a full flame.
I set her hand on my chest, because it’s the only thing keeping my dead organ beating. My body is a fucking roadmap of damage. Scars that hold a story. One on my shoulder where a bullet tried to end me but missed. Two on my stomach where a meth-head slashed me with broken glass. More on my leg, where my bike tipped and took me for a ride on the pavement. Every line is earned. Every shadow deserved. Just like the ink winding around my ribs like smoke holding me together. She can’t see any of it, but her fingers flex against my chest as if she reads every mark and isn’t afraid of them.
We have one last thing to settle in case it gets too much.
“What’s our safe word?” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles through the visor.
“Josh Hammond,” she whispers, folding her fingers over mine like I’m her savior and not a monster.
A surprised laugh bursts out of me. “I’m not using your dog’s name. That’s weird.”
I trace her lazy smile, memorizing the curves like she’s a map to my salvation.
“It’s the name of my favorite stalker, I’ll have you know,” she huffs.
I crush her closer. “I’m not using another guy’s name. Not even a fluffy one.”
She pokes my chest. “You’re a disappointment in the stalker department.”
I spin her around, and her back collides with my chest. “Good thing I’m incredible in bed.”
She turns her head just enough to smirk. But it’s softer now. Less performance. More presence and ease. More her. When she leans her weight back into me, her fingers lace with mine. It feels like trust. Not sex. Not power. Not games. Just two broken people holding each other steady.
