Tristan Michelson
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I wish I could tie her to my bed and never let her leave.
The thought came out of nowhere while I watched her sleep. She was curled on her side, her face half-buried in the pillow, lips parted, breathing slow and deep. My tie, which I’d used as a temporary blindfold, lay discarded on the floor. One of her arms was tucked under her cheek while the other was on my chest. Her hair spilled everywhere, wild and sweaty from how rough I had been. My gaze dropped to the faint red marks from her hips where I’d gripped too hard.
She looked wrecked.
She looked like mine. And I hated how much I liked it.
I slid off the mattress carefully, not wanting to wake her. My bare feet hit the cool floor. I’d managed to take off my shoes before climbing over her. The room smelled lik
