Page 55 of Scorched Veil
His hands find my hips as he slowly turns me, so my back is to him. I reach down, pull the shirt up, gathering the fabric in my fists, and lift it above my waist. The air hits my bare skin, and I feel him go still behind me.
Silence.
I count the seconds by my own heartbeat.
One. Two. Three.
His breath comes out in a shattered exhale, the sound a man makes when something hits him in the chest, and he wasn't braced for it. His fingers brush the skin beside the tattoo, barely touching, tracing the air around the letters like he's afraid contact will make them disappear.
"Summer." My name in his mouth sounds like it's been dragged out of somewhere deep. His thumb traces the K first. Slow. Reverent. Then the rest of the letters, one by one, his fingertip following the lines like he's memorizing them through his skin. I feel his breath on my lower back, warm and unsteady, and I realize he's leaned down to look closer.
"You …" His voice cracks. He stops and tries again. "When?"
"Today, while you were on the phone."
His forehead presses against my spine, just above the tattoo, and he stays there. His hands shake, I can feel them trembling against my hips, and something in my chest splinters openbecause this man, this dangerous, obsessive, brutal man who killed for me, who built an island for me, who tattooed my name on his arm, is shaking because I chose to mark myself as his.
"You put my name on your body," he says against my skin.
"Right where you can see it." I look over my shoulder. "Every time."
He makes a sound I've never heard from him before. Low, raw, almost wounded, then his hands tighten on my hips, and he spins me back around to face him. His eyes are dark and wet and furious and soft all at once, and he kisses me so hard my spine hits the bathroom counter.
"You're mine," he says between kisses, and it sounds different now. Not a threat. Not a claim. A fact he finally believes that I believe too.
"Yours," I whisper back. "Was there ever any doubt?"
He pulls back and looks at me, and for the first time since I've known him, Kairo Saint doesn't have a single word left.
He just drops to his knees, presses his lips to my stomach, and stays there. I run my fingers through his damp hair and look at our reflection in the mirror behind him. This man on his knees, my hand in his hair, his name on my skin. A month ago, I was sold to a stranger, and now I'm standing in our bathroom, barefoot, wearing his shirt, and I've never felt freer.
The gold band on my finger catches the light.
It doesn't feel like a noose anymore.
He stays on his knees for a long moment, forehead pressed to my stomach like he’s praying.
Then something in him snaps. Kairo surges up and spins me around so fast my palms slap the marble. I brace myself against the counter, arching my back instinctively. In the mirror, I watch his face dark, unhinged, completely feral as he stares at the tattoo. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t prep me. He doesn’t ever need to, I’m already soaked. He linesup and thrusts into me in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
I cry out, the stretch sharp and perfect.
“Mine,” he growls, eyes fixed on the black letters at the base of my spine. “Fucking mine.”
He fucks me like a man who almost lost everything and just got it back. It’s hard, deep, possessive, the only way Kairo Saint knows how to fuck. Every thrust makes the fresh tattoo pull and sting, and the pain only makes him groan louder.
“Look at it,” he rasps, one hand fisting my hair to keep my head up so I can see us in the mirror. “Look at my name on you while I fuck you. This is where you belong. Bent over with my cock inside you and my name marked on your skin.”
He slams into me again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the marble. His eyes never leave the tattoo. Every time he bottoms out, he grinds deep like he’s trying to imprint himself even further inside me.
“Say it,” he demands, voice unhinged. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You.” I moan, pushing back against him. “I belong to you.”
His grip tightens, almost painfully, and his pace turns savage. He’s watching the tattoo move with every thrust, watching his name bounce on my skin as he claims me.
“Again,” he growls. “Louder.”
“I’m yours, Kairo! I’m yours!”
