He woke in darkness, a tiny slit of light pushing through heavy curtains that ungracefully framed the window. She was next to him, laying on her right side, sheet slipped, exposed back, the curve of her shoulders, red marks still visible from where his fingers and teeth pressed her flesh. A salty residue returned to his mouth along with the memory of her piquant gaze, suddenness of her kisses. When they found themselves in this room, anticipated moment finally upon them, he was sure she would fold, find another reason to hold back. Instead she pulled him close. Now on his neck, the bruise from her bite was just beginning to tighten and he touched it, pushed hard.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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