Page 202 of A Taste of Vanilla
“Let me have the sweet.”
He nods, and I kiss him again. Less to start something this time and more because I don’t know what else to do.
The laptop shifts beside us, and Warren’s mouth moves to my jaw, then to my throat, then to the edge of the mark he left last night. He stops there.
“I didn’t hurt you here, right?”
“No.”
His mouth touches the mark, and I close my eyes. He kisses it, and something low in me pulls tight. The man will ruin me.
He hooks one finger into the collar of my shirt and gently pulls it over my head.
His mouth closes over my breast, his teeth scraping over my nipple. I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“God, keep going,” I hum.
I reach for the hem of his henley and he helps me pull it off.
And he’s exposed to me.
The tattoos still feel like new discoveries. Black ink over muscle and warm skin. The raven at his collarbone, the flowers down one arm, and the map on the other.
“This one,” I say.
His eyes drop to my hand. “What about it?”
“Why a raven?”
He’s quiet. Then, “Because Marley liked them.”
That surprises me. He continues, “She was seven. There was one that used to sit on the power lines behind our house. She named him Mr. Funeral.”
I laugh softly. “That’s extremely Marley.”
“Yep.”
I trace the edge of the wing. “So you got a raven tattoo because Marley had a bird friend named Mr. Funeral?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “I got it because she was a child who deserved to think someone watched over her.”
Oh.
My throat tightens.
I keep my finger on the raven. “You never had a chance,” I whisper.
“At what?”
“At not being responsible.”
His expression flinches for a second, and before he can retreat, I lean down and kiss the raven.
His breath stops. “Halston.”
I kiss the black ink again. “What?”
His hand comes to the back of my head. He doesn’t pull. It just rests there. “Nothing,” he whispers, kissing my hair.
