The thought burned like acid in his throat. He had slammed that bruise into her flesh. He had gripped her, hurt her, used her.
And now this boy—this nobody—was pressing his mouth to the very marks of her past hell and turning them into something sacred. Every gentle kiss, every soft suck, every warm breath was rewriting Jonathan's violence into devotion.
Phei had not ushed to heal her... he had to erase all her hell with something godly as this pleasure... she would always remember her bedroom with this pleasure not what she endured in it.
Roxanne's head fell back, lips parted in a silent, worshipful gasp she didn't even hear herself make. Her body had found its salvation.
Without conscious thought, one of her hands slid down Phei's chest, fingers splaying possessively yet trustingly over his heart—as if anchoring herself to the only being who could ever make her feel whole.
