𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

56

A/N:
Just to be clear, unless stated, the pov of the new chapter follows the same pov I left off in the last chapter.

***

I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING AFTER. I never did seem to have anything to say to him when he spoke like that.

With the shower hitting our forms, washing us off, in the silence of our heavy breathing and the clash of the water, I only picked up a loofa and helped him wash.

I hadn't realized how caked up he was. His broken nose from Trippie, had been forced to employ its own means to heal itself or stay as it was, and as a result, he had dried blood still on his face. Most of it had flaked off, but the purple skin around and over his nose concealed more dry blood-hardened like the facial expression he wore.

His skin tensed up as he realized what I was doing, but he didn't move, letting me touch him as I slowly rubbed the body wash covered loofa over his tattooed chest.

His bare skin was a patchwork of wounds of old. Protruding over his coloured tattoos, I could recognize the raised skin that marked familiar wounds.

There had been a time when whenever he'd lift his shirt up, he'd either be covered in drenched bandages, or his bleeding wounds had been in need of some. There had been a time when I had asked him where he'd been when I needed him the most, and he'd only lifted his shirt to show me bleeding wounds-a display meant to answer my question. It did. His every wound answered my question, but they were never the true answers that I had wanted.

At present, he didn't say anything, letting me proceed with what I was doing. He didn't move either, as though he was fearful that a single movement or word from him would break this spell, and I would turn away.

I could feel him debating this as he held himself at bay. I could see his eyes move with a subtle frantic itch. I could sense him waiting for it.

Then, when he was somewhat sure I didn't have any plans of pushing me away and leaving him to himself in the shower, he reached his hand out and swiftly gripped my bare waist, pulling me flush against his chest-out wet bodies cold and warm at the same time as the skin on skin pressure intensified.

Colson dropped his head low, pushing it in my neck, his lips forming a pucker as he kissed my shoulder slowly, gently.

I thought I could stay, but the fresh contact after the impromptu sex nailed an overwhelming feeling into me-an ink spot that fluttered and gaped on a blank surface, getting wider and deep by the second.

I still felt him inside me, and suddenly, that became too much. The after effects of his sex became too much.

How many times had we ever done this? This was the second time, was it not? The first gave us Connor. The first was four years ago. I had had sex with Whittall far more times than the sum of my son's age tripled. Yet, it was sex with Colson that overwhelmed me.

Yet it was Colson's touch that had become too much for me.

The loofa dropped from my hand and panic struck the settled chords inside me, reigniting them again-making them sensitive again.

I pushed away from him.

"Davina," Colson uttered, the hand that had been around my waist outstretched with the sudden loss of me, as his eyes looked at me in plain confusion.

There was a faint tremor in his jaw, as though he was blaming himself for me pushing him away like this.

After our first time four years ago, I had cried when he hadn't looked at me after I had given myself to him.