Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
I pouted since it was true.
“Though we’ll make a run to Walgreens or your motel to get toiletries that don’t horrify you so much,” he added.
As the words sank in, I realized what they meant. They meant that he thought I was going to be here long enough to put shampoo and conditioner in his shower.
My mind wandered to his words from last night. The promise I’d made.
Swiss didn’t notice me ruminating on that for the rest of the shower, or after when I’d gone through the motions of getting out with him and taking the towel he handed me.
I mean, I wasn’t that gone to not notice Swiss drying himself, seeing the way his muscles ripped, how the water trickled down his back.
The back that did indeed have scratches from my nails. But it also had something else.
A tattoo.
Swiss did not have any other tattoos like most of the men in the club. His skin was smooth, unmarred, except for the scars on his body. But this tattoo was a replica of the patch on the back of his cut. A skeleton riding a motorcycle, flames behind him.
‘The Sons of Templar MC’ at the bottom.
Though I was still learning about what life was like in a motorcycle club, I got the idea that membership was for life. Swiss was serious enough about it to have it inked on his skin.
I watched that ink as he kissed my head, slung the towel around his waist, and walked out of the bathroom.
Then I focused on the task of getting ready for the day… though I had no idea what this day would entail.
Once toweled off, I looked at my naked body in the mirror. It was covered in marks, faint discolorations from the pads of Swiss’s fingers. Redness at my wrists and ankles from the bindings he’d used on me. I turned to see raised welts on my ass from his cane. The skin around my neck was slightly red from his hands gripping me there as he came.
This was not the first time I’d catalogued injuries in the mirror given to me by a man. However, it was the first time I’d had marks put on me that I’d chosen. That I’d enjoyed. There was a huge sense of power in that.
Ownership.
Somehow it felt like I was taking my body back, as utterly screwed up as that sounded.
“Like seein’ that sexy body with my marks on it,” he drawled.
Swiss was standing by the door, watching me.
Naked.
There were plenty of marks on his body from me too. From where my nails had sunk into his skin, clawing at him, desperate to feel his blood on me. Desperate to make a mark, as proof that I existed. Proof that this time with him existed.
“Want to brand you one day too,” he added, walking forward.
My eyes widened, and my skin prickled with fear.
And excitement.
“Brand m-me?” I stuttered.
He nodded, grasping my hips, rubbing the area underneath my c-section scar with his thumb.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at it. “In the future, the near future to be sure. I want my name on you. Want my scar on you.”
I was utterly and genuinely blown away. For a variety of reasons. Granted I had been out of the game for a long time—technically forever if you looked at my history—but I wasn’t aware that branding people was something romantic partners did with one another.
Then again, people lied about what romance was every damn day. Books, movies, people who we had dinners with. If you asked any of them, they’d say mine and Preston’s relationship was the most enviable of them all. Was the most ‘normal.’
Who was I to think branding someone was outside the realm of possibility? To think it was screwed up?
Except I didn’t think it was screwed up. Which made it all the more confusing. I liked the idea of it.
What was confusing was that Swiss had known me for such a short time. Unless this too was a common occurrence.
“Is that…” I trailed off, my throat dry. I swallowed and tried again. “Is that something you do with a lot of women?”
I could not suddenly assume that I was special. How narcissistic of me. I’d seen the lifestyle of these men, seen all the women hanging off them at the club party. They were sexually free and open—as they had the right to be, as long as everyone was consenting. Just because I’d lived some square life with good Christian ideals drilled into me did not make me any kind of authority on how many sexual partners one should have, and if one should or should not brand those sexual partners.
Again, as long as everyone was consenting.
Heck, there was probably a whole gaggle of women out there bearing Swiss’s brand.
His eyes were stormy as I came out of my head. “No, Kate,” he ground out. “That is not something I do with a lot of women.” His grip tightened at my hip. “That is not something I’ve done with any woman.”