I study the ink on his arm, afraid to move, not to wake him up, tracing with my eyes the dark whorls and lines, up to the snake covering his shoulder. He has fine dark hairs on his forearm. His hand is large, the fingers long, the nails blunt and square, and then there’s the scar I noticed before—old, white, running from the inside of his wrist down to his palm.
It fascinates me even more than his ink, and I run my fingertip over it, following the upraised skin up to his wrist. Strange that he didn’t try to cover it up with a tattoo, I think, as he shivers, his flesh breaking into goosebumps.
“Manon?” His voice is heavy with sleep, deep, resonating through me.
Freezing, I wait to see what will happen. All uncharted territory to me. Never slept with a boyfriend before—even a pretend boyfriend. Never woke up with one.
“Morning.” He shifts behind me, nuzzling my hair, and something long and hard pokes my ass.
Oh God, he’s aroused. Solid hard. Fire shoots up my belly as he snuggles closer, shifting again, trying to accommodate his erection.
“You’re awake,” he whispers.
“Yeah.” I lay my fingertips over the scar. “What made this?”
“What…?” He shivers again when I stroke it. “Oh fuck.”
“Looks like it was bad.”
He groans. “It was. Knife.”
“How did it happen?”
“My stepdad happened. High on drugs. Tried to cut me up.”
Shit. I twist, trying to turn, to look at his face, but he won’t let me. “My God. What did he do to you? Did—?”
“I’m okay, it was… Fuck. It’s over.” He pulls his hand away.
“Where was your mom? Were you home alone with him?”
“She was there, stoned out of her fucking mind.” He groans. “Listen… it’s too early for this shit.”
I grab his wrist again. “Please.”
He stills, his breathing quick and uneven. “What now?”
“If you were my boyfriend…”
I swallow hard. “I’d want to know.”
“Fuck.” It’s quiet and heartfelt, so much so I want to take it back, back away, let him be.
But I can’t. “You said you thought your mom was dead. What happened?”
“What do you think happened? She left. Never called or came back. I thought she died.”
“You were close?”
“Ha. Good one.”
“You weren’t.”
“Not by a long shot. For one, she was never there, and even when she was, she was high, or low, depending on what she was using. She took my money, money I stole or made with small jobs. She often had her boyfriends at home, motherfucking bastards, so I made sure I was never there. End of story.”
My heart is in my throat. Jesus. “They beat you?”
He laughs, and the sound is like a blade, sharp and cold. “Yeah, they beat me. Then I grew up, moved out, and that was that.”