Page 62 of Twisted Little Game
He finally lets go of the balled up fabric of the front of my shirt. But he doesn’t yank away from me quickly like I expect him to.
Slowly, he moves backward. When he leans back I see streaks all across his stomach and one that landed at the center of his chest, painting white over one of his tattoos.
My lip still throbs with the echo of his teeth.
I barely register the feeling of him untying the braided belt from my ankles. I’m free to move again, but I stay in the same place, sucking air into my lungs.
He stands up and looks away toward the house, the faraway glow of light from a window highlighting his face.
He’s perfect.
Awful.
And fucking perfect, too.
“Come on,” he tells me, stretching out his neck. “Get up. We’re going upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re sleeping in my room. I’m making it a rule.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “Biggest fucking ego on planet Earth.”
He just gives me a calm, almost serene look. “I need you to promise you’ll follow my rules.”
“Why? Is it going to make you hard again?”
He glares at me. “Say it.”
“I’ll follow your rules, Roman.”
He bends lower and presses a soft kiss to the side of my head. “I know you will.”
When he turns, I look at his back.
I can see two symmetrical dimples in the planes of muscle above his waistband, and the strong ridges that lead lower toward his ass.
He has a giant Onyx Society tattoo, a stylized depiction of a stone and flame spanning his entire upper back, going from one shoulder blade to the other. The shadows are drawn thick, with some parts being shrouded in full black, but there’s also a thicker, fleshy slash diagonally through the center of it where the ink bends and warps.
Holy hell.
It’s a scar.
A deeper, more prominent scar than any of the ones on his hands.
He was hurt badly at some point, and the wound cut right through the center of the tattoo.
Who on Earth could ever hurt you like that?
Roman is dangerous… but he’s so tender, too. I feel it when he opens up to me, in beautiful, intense moments, before he drops back behind his walls.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But I find myself wishing I could get up and run my fingers along that scar, to erase it and whatever pain it caused.
9
Roman
