Page 40 of Wild Heart
“My marks. They were pretty, Papa. You made them special, and now they’re ruined.”
Tears bled down his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice as his muscles shook with an uneven measure of distress and rage. A frustrated, impatient sound flew past his lips, and he opened and closed his mouth like he was struggling to make sense of what he was feeling.
Palm to his chest, he rubbed. Whimpers left him as he shook his head, and his fingers tore at the collar of his shirt.
“Fix them, Papa,” he begged. “You have to fix them.”
Impatience made me quake—not with him, but with me. Heneededsomething from me, needed something so bad, he tasted his own tears, and I wasn’t fucking competent enough to figure it out.
I pressed a soft kiss to his wet cheek. “Help me understand, baby.”
“My marks,” he said again.
You made them special…
Ah, fuck.
I loved him.
I loved him so goddamn much; I was bleeding with it.
My hands covered his, and together we tore his shirt straight down the middle. Across the expanse of his chest were the bruises I’d sucked into his skin.
“Mine!” He nearly shouted, voice weighed down with need and a dose of possession that had my heart thumping and cock twitching.
I fucking loved the way he protected what I’d given him.
“My baby,” I cajoled and moved my hands to the small of his back. He arched against my touch, shoving his chest upward and letting his head fall back. Curls swayed as he breathed, eyes closed while he waited for me to make him feel okay again.
“Somebody touched what’s yours, and when you needed your Papa to fix it, I wasn’t here.” He shivered when my lips touched his skin, and I nibbled as I spoke. “I’m sorry, baby.”
A breathy moan pierced the air when I sucked his skin into my mouth.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The appreciation he had for my touch killed all my thoughts. The way I went at him then was carnal, pushing my nails into the skin around his hips until he made a guttural sound.
I licked over every bruise I made, soothing the sting I caused before moving to a new patch of skin. I felt drunk when he bared the long column of his throat to me, thrusting his hips upward and looking for fiction. Rising to my knees, I pivoted just enough to prop him against the edge of the bed and then closed my mouth over the dip in his throat.
His cock pulsed where it sat, tight against my stomach. The increased pressure seemed to electrify him, and he started to rut.
“Papa.”
“That’s it, baby. Move those sweet hips for me.”
Dragging the tip of my nose across the vein of his neck, I grinned when he squirmed. He was panting by the time I reached his lips. The bottom one was jutted outward, warm and wet, and practically fucking begging to be bitten.
I sank my teeth into him.
“Harder,” he whined.
Fucking. Hell.
I gave him what he asked for, rumbling in satisfaction when his blood coated my tongue. It was sweet. Goddamn sugar. Hand on his chin, I held him still and sucked, pulling blood from his lip while his cries ghosted the sides of my jaw.
“You are my fucking remedy,” I rasped. “I will never get enough of you.”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
