Kiss the Sky (Addicted #3)(90)

I inspect the rest of my body, some faint and some prominent marks all across my breasts, arms, legs, wrists, more reddened than anything. I drop my robe completely and spot the bite mark on my hip, Connor’s teeth imprinted. My fingers graze the tender area, and I smile.

I like these bruises.

They’re like my war wounds.

I survived wild sex.

I still can’t stop smiling, even as I grab my panties and step into them, my limbs protesting at the movement. Okay, now my smile has vanished. I grimace as the fabric sits against a sensitive place that wishes to be free of touch.

I stare angrily at the bra on the counter. My nipples hurt. The left one is red and raw, having gone through hell at the mercy of Connor Cobalt’s mouth. That bra might as well be iron spikes, and I haven’t even put it on yet.

Before I make this crucial decision, the bathroom door opens, and my arm flies to my breasts. Not Scott. Please not Scott.

I exhale as soon as Connor shuts the door behind him.

I drop my arm, and he peruses my body quickly. I focus on the bottle of lotion he carries. “Where did you get that?” It looks expensive and feminine.

“I bought it in New York before we left,” he says, almost in disinterest. “How do you feel?”

I draw my shoulders back in confidence and mask the pain from my face. “Fantastic,” I say, combing my fingers through my hair. “Ready for round…” How many times did we actually do it last night? I’m so aggravated that I lost count. I don’t lose count of anything.

Shit. My thoughts are even pretentious.

Connor must be rubbing off on me. Or maybe I’ve always been this way.

“I’ll be the judge of when you’re ready,” he says, leaning an arm on the sink as he watches me.

I give him a look. “I think I know my body better than you.”

He raises his brows in challenge. “That’s debatable, and secondly, you’re stubborn and competitive. Two qualities that make you a terrible judge.” He uncaps the lotion and squeezes it into his palm.

“I can do it myself,” I say, regretting the words immediately. I’d much rather be indulged by him.

“But the wonderful thing about making these bruises is that I get to tend to them.” He (thankfully) ignores my statement and rubs the lotion onto one of the faint bruises on my shoulder, careful and tender, the exact opposite of his demeanor in bed.

A girl could get used to this.

He massages the bite mark, and only once does the pain intensify. I try to hold back my grimace, but I must be unsuccessful because he kisses the spot. Then he talks to me in French about everyday things. Calloway Couture. Cobalt Inc. What we’ll do when we return to Philly tomorrow.

Being taken care of has never felt so good.

When he finishes checking my bruises, he focuses on the spot between my legs. He cups my sex, and I clench my teeth, refusing to show how much it aches—and not in the “please f*ck me” kind of way.

“These need to go.” He slowly removes my panties, sliding them down my legs. I hold onto his shoulders as I step out of them. He helps me slip my arms back through my robe, and he ties it at my waist. The silk gently caresses my skin unlike the cotton of my underwear.

Connor looks at my diamond collar, and reaches for the buckle.

I take a step back, possessively touching the leather at my throat.

His entire face lights up, and he holds in a laugh, rubbing his lips to stifle the sound. “So now you like it?”

“They’re diamonds,” I say like he’s insane. “And it was a gift. You can’t take it back.”

“I’m not going to return it,” he assures me. “I’ll keep it safe.” He approaches, and I don’t withdraw this time. He unfastens the buckle, my neck bare without the warm leather.

“Why can’t I keep it on?” I ask softly, eyeing his lips. I watch the way they move when he speaks.

“Because you’ll wear it when I play with you,” he says. “And today, I’m taking care of you.” He gathers my hair in his hand and rubs lotion where the buckle dug into my skin. His fingers dance so skillfully along the tender areas. I muster all of my willpower to stop from moaning and submitting like a drooling puppy.

He caps the lotion, pockets the collar, and leaves the bathroom without another word. I frown, confused at first. But then he returns with another black case, the same size as last night’s. Another necklace?

My eyes widen in excitement.

He doesn’t make me beg this time. He merely opens the box. “This one is for days like today.”

He untangles it from the box, and then he steps behind me, swooping it around my neck and fastening it in place. He’s given me jewelry before: a teardrop necklace when we first started dating. But this means more to me. Not just because a diamond pendant rests against my chest, but because it’s simple and refined, on a feather-light chain that I could wear with almost every outfit. He thought about that, I can tell.

I think I might cry. And I never cry.

I suppose it’s okay to shed tears over jewelry. That doesn’t make me more of an ice queen or a materialistic snob, right? Oh, who the f*ck cares?

My tears are apparent.

“Thank you,” I say.

He kisses my lips and slides his arms over my shoulders. “Always.”