OWNED BY THE DEVIL
Celine Kittystanding there menacingly
He turned slightly so our knees overlapped, a subtle enclosure, and lifted my hand, examining the faint scar near my wrist from an earlier incident weeks ago.
“You never told me how that healed,” he said.
“It healed because you didn’t let it worsen.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is to me.”
He pressed a slow kiss to the inside of my wrist, right over the scar, not sensual, not playful, reverent. My breath hitched anyway.
“That,” I whispered, “was unfairly effective.”
“Good.”
“You’re learning romance.”
“I study what matters.”
Silence returned, warm, full, shared. The kind where words would reduce instead of add.
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