Scarred and Sacred

 Vic’s hands tremble as he unbuckles his belt, the leather hissing like a blade unsheathed. The bruises on my hips—his fingerprints from three days ago—glow violet under the dim light, a map of his hunger. He freezes, staring at them like they’re a confession.

“I did that,” he rasps, thumb skimming the darkest mark. His voice is low, reverent, like a man kneeling at an altar. “Fuck. I’ll do it again. I always do.”

I reach for him, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head with a growl. “Don’t.” His breath is hot, uneven. “Don’t fucking forgive me.”

But his mouth crashes into mine anyway—a kiss that’s equal parts punishment and plea, teeth drawing blood from my lip before his tongue soothes the sting.

The Sex Scene: Guilt and Devotion
He shoves me onto the bed, hands rough on my thighs as he spreads them, but his touch softens when his fingers find me wet. “Still sore,” he mutters, circling my clit with a slowness that makes me whimper. “Why do you let me ruin you?”

“You don’t—”

He bites my inner thigh, sharp enough to bruise, then laps at the mark like he’s trying to erase it. “Liar.” His fingers push inside me, curling in that way that steals my breath, but his other hand cradles my face. “Look at me. Let me see how much I fucking hurt you.”

When he sinks into me, it’s not the usual frenzy. He fucks me deep and slow, forehead pressed to mine, our breaths tangled. “You feel that?” he whispers, dragging his cock against the spot that makes me see stars. “That’s how much I need you. How much I… goddamn it!”

His hips stutter, but his hands stay gentle—one fisted in my hair like a lifeline, the other gripping my hip like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

He carries me to the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a washcloth, muttering curses at the bruises. “I’ll stop,” he lies, hands already sliding between my legs. “Tell me to stop.”

“I can’t.”

He pins me against the tile, fingers working me open under the scalding water. “You’re mine,” he snarls, but it sounds like a prayer. “Even if I’m poison.”
At 2 a.m., we’re in the kitchen—him shirtless, me drowning in his hoodie—when he slams his fist into the counter. “Why don’t you hate me?”

I don’t flinch. “Do you want me to?”

He hauls me onto the counter, burying his face in my neck. “Yes. No. Christ.” His voice cracks. “I’m breaking you. And you just… let me.”

When he kisses me, it’s savage and reverent—teeth splitting my lip, tongue licking the blood clean. His hands slide under the hoodie, palms rough on my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. “I’ll ruin us,” he murmurs, biting my earlobe. “But I can’t fucking stop.”