Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
How many times do I have to write 'mine' on Kendall's back for it to come true?
The question crosses my mind while I trace the letters on her smooth skin, using a single fingertip so as not to wake her. The sun has just risen, dousing The Strip in natural light. Kendall is lying on her stomach, breathing deeply. I'm still blinking sleep from my eyes, lazily drawing shapes along Ken's spine.
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I'm so damn sore. My abdominals, thighs, buttocks, calves—all the muscles involved in thrusting. My arms ache from holding myself up for hours on end, refusing to bear my full weight on Kendall. I'm not a gym rat, although maybe I should consider a membership. I've fucked hard before, but never that hard—to the point of exertion. I'm hoping Ken stirs soon, just so I'll know she's okay.
Physically, I left a few marks on her. Pink bruises, and purple love bites. I trace the outline of my teeth on the apex of her shoulder blade, watching her skin pebble with awareness. A few moments later, Kendall rolls onto her back, stretching her arms above her head. Her joints crack, but I'm used to that by now. The sheets slip below her navel, revealing her upper body. Her delicate collarbones, and cappuccino-colored nipples. Her tapered ribcage, and toned waist. Her flared hips, and the tan line above her pubic bone.
It's a wonder my dick is hard. I was certain I didn't have anything left in the chamber.
"You're covered in hickeys," Kendall informs me, her voice cracking with sleep. She turns her head, kissing the tip of my nose.
I slide my hand up her torso, between her tits, and tap the purple bruise marring the swell of her breast. "So are you."
She peers down, grinning at the evidence. Kendall is proud of the marks we've given one another, which is good, because so am I. Leaving a semi-permanent token on another person is overwhelmingly intimate. Juvenile, some may say, but to each their own.
The thought of blemishes, temporary or otherwise, has my touch drifting south. I skate my fingers around the circular scar on Kendall's abdomen. I study her face for signs of distress, but she remains calm, waiting for me to broach the subject.
"What happened?" I whisper.
"I was shot," she answers.
"Details, doll," I prompt, nipping her jaw. "They're what make a story."
She rolls her eyes, but elaborates. "When I was five-years-old, a man and a woman broke into my dad's penthouse in Philadelphia. They planned to rob the place, not knowing anyone would be home. My mom hid me in the closet, but things escalated. The man fired his gun, and the bullet went through the wall, hitting me in the stomach."
How scared must she have been? Hiding in the dark, knowing danger lurked around the corner. And to have her safe space invaded not by a thief, but a discharged weapon. I cover her scar with my palm, letting my warmth bleed into her flesh.
