The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Twenty four

I count them as I undo them. It soothes me somehow. I time my breathing to it, and the sound of my own heart fills my head.
It is almost mindless, and it takes me out of my dark and dangerous thoughts.
He is patient and unmoving, just watching me with hooded, smouldering eyes.
I pull his shirt down his arms. Trace his collarbone with a finger, then the curve of his pecs, the faint shadow of his ribs. He squirms slightly, ticklish.
I light up at that, remembering our tickle fights when we were small. I remember the exact spot, a couple centimetres above his belly button.
He wriggles under my touch, trying to hold in a laugh, but he can't contain it. It bursts out like a ray of sunshine.
Then suddenly he's on top of me, pinning me down with his knees, holding my arms above my head. He tickles me under my arms and I squirm and wriggle and try to get free, laughing hysterically.
He freezes.
"I'm sorry," he says, starting to get off, as if realising what a mistake he's made.
"No," I stop him, holding him where he is. "Like this, I am not afraid."
I sit up so he nearly falls off and pull my dress over my head in one smooth, brave movement.
But as cold air caresses my skin I cannot meet his gaze.
He touches my cheek and gently pulls my face up so I have to look at him.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are beautiful."
I nod slowly, uncertainly, and smile at him.
He leans down to kiss me, every inch of my face, quick and light and breathtaking.
"Shall I turn the lights off?"
I shake my head. No.
I feel my hands reach for his belt.
Slut.
Her voice curls into my brain. It hammers into my eardrums. It makes me want to fold into a ball and cry.
And then his voice cuts in. Softer, kinder, and yet full of longing and heat.
"Beautiful. My beautiful wife."
And even as he falls silent except for the sharp inhales of his hunger, even as he covers my body in so many feather-like kisses, I hear those words over and over. I hear them sheilding me from her anger.
And suddenly I am ready to give myself to him. I am ready to throw myself upon his mercy. For I know he will be more gentle and fragile with me than a kitten. And I feel safer with him than with anyone in the world.
His hands come up to gently cup my breasts, and he's staring at them in wonder. He glances into my eyes again, his expression questioning, as if asking my if its alright.
It is and it isn't, but I don't want the moment to end, and I don't want to explain. Instead I push my chest up into his hands to tell him to keep going.
He reaches around to undo my bra, so easily that I suddenly wonder if he's done it before.
Why won't mind just shut up.
"Fuck Camilla," he murmurs, and I almost protest because I've never heard him curse before. "You're perfect."
This time he says it with such conviction I believe him for a second. He slips his fingers into my hair, gently pulling my head down so he can capture my lips with his. His tongue is warm and sweet, he tastes like coffee and honey.