Page 28 of Wild Heart
“Are one of these tattoos for her?”
“The clock.”
Marcos made a soft noise and then dipped his chin, pressing a light kiss to the shadowed clock I had inked into my bicep.
My skin rippled beneath the tender touch, and if I hadn’t already decided to keep him, I would’ve right then.
“Most Russian families believe a soul can stay on earth for days, even a month, after their death. To make it easier for mama to cross over, my babushka covered all the mirrors with black cloths and stopped every clock in the house. I spentdaysstaring at those fucking clocks, wondering if her spirit had made it through. Eventually, time moved again, but it never felt the same.”
He ran his fingers over the bold numbers and the hands that were forged of withered rope—forever frozen on the date she died.
4.02
“I followed all the same traditions for babushka when she died.”
“Do you have another clock for her?”
“The cross,” I told him, guiding his fingers to my forearm. “In Slavic language, Vera means faith.”
“What does your name mean?”
“Gracious.”
Fingers still, I saw his lips tug upward just before a laugh burst from his throat. “I’m not so sure Freddy would agree with that.”
“Oh, are we allowed to talk about Freddy now?”
“Me. I’m allowed. You can choke on those six letters.”
With a fist full of his hair, I yanked. “Now, baby, I’ve already told you who holds my attention.”
His lips parted on a gasp. The bottom one quivered, glistening with saliva. A groan rocked his chest when I sank my teeth into that swollen lip and then sucked it into my mouth.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me well enough the first time, Solnyshko, but I amkeepingyou. Yeah? That means you don’t fucking go anywhere without me watching. That means any hands on you will be mine, or they’ll be broken.That meansI’ll spread you out across my bed and paint you in my blood as many times as I damn well please, and you’ll say…”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“That’s right. You’ll thank me for making you pretty. You wanna be pretty for me, don’t you, baby?”
“So pretty,” he breathed.
Folding my lips over his, I caught his whimper just as it fled his mouth. His spine arched, and he nearly fell off my lap when I brushed a thumb over his nipple.
“Please, Papa,” he whined. “Hurts.”
“Ah, my poor baby.” I pressed the heel of my palm into his hard cock. “You’re aching, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He bit down on his lip, and the groan he let loose toyed with my control.
“Let’s play a game,” I whispered in his ear. “You wanna play a game with Papa?”
My fingers flirted with his waistband, and I grinned at the way his stomach rippled when I pushed my hand beneath the fabric. “What do you say, my little butterfly?”
“Yes.”
ChapterNine
Marcos
