Round and purple, they stand out vividly against my pale skin. For a moment, I can’t begin to think what they came from. But then I remember the roughness of Ethan’s lovemaking. I remember the way his mouth was everywhere—everywhere. Nipping, sucking, biting, then licking the small hurts away. Again and again and again. At the time I was too caught up in how good it felt to realize what he was doing.
It’s not the first time he’s marked me with love bites—after a night in his bed, I always have at least a few. But this—this is more than just a few hickeys. This is Ethan branding me with marks of his possession. His passion.
His love.
I open my robe, let it slide down my arms to pool on the ground at my feet. And realize that that is exactly what Ethan’s done.
I’m covered with bruises. My shoulders, my stomach, my hips, my thighs, my back, my ass. Covered with his love bites.
Covered with his love.
The truth rolls over me and my fear and confusion fall away. He didn’t do this to hurt me, to prove his mastery over me. He did it so that I would feel secure. So that I would feel his love after the weeks of tension and torment. I still feel inadequate, still feel like I don’t deserve Ethan—I’ll probably always feel like that. But these bruises—rooted in love and possession instead of in a desire to cause pain—they ground me. Make me feel wanted. Make me feel needed. Tell me, better than any words ever could, that Ethan missed me as much as I missed him.
I trace my fingers across my collarbone to the hollow of my throat. I play with the bruise there for long seconds, loving the dark purple color of it. Loving the shape of it. Loving the memory of Ethan’s mouth pressing hot kisses against my skin.
I can feel my heart beating—fast but steady—beneath my fingers. It feels good. It feels real when so much of the last days have felt anything but.
I trail my hand down my right breast and over my stomach, following the path Ethan’s lips took last night. I close my eyes, let my head loll back on my neck. Give myself over to the feeling of being cared for. Of being loved.
Because these bruises are good. These bruises weren’t left by a guy determined to have his way no matter what I said. No matter what the cost. They weren’t left by a man who wanted to hurt me.
They were left by a man who loves me. A man who wants to take away all the bad memories and replace them with good. A man who wants me to know all that I am. All that I can be.
It’s enough to silence the voices deep inside me—my father’s, his mother’s, Brandon’s, my own. Maybe not forever. Maybe not even for very long. But for today. For now.
After all I’ve been through, I’ll take it. I’ll take Ethan and my internship and the future that’s right there, just waiting for me to grab hold. I’ll take it all.
Everything else can take care of itself.
—
“Is it safe?” Tori asks an hour later, stumbling into the kitchen where I’m sitting at the table, sipping coffee and daydreaming of Ethan. “Does everybody have clothes on?”
“I’m the only one here,” I tell her. “And yes, I am wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt.”
“Thank Christ.” She makes a beeline for the coffeepot and pours herself a large mug. I watch in amusement as she adds enough sugar to bankrupt a candy factory, then follows it with a quarter cup of cream before lifting the mug to her lips and downing half its contents in one gulp.
“How are you not three hundred pounds?” I ask in disbelief.
“Good genes and clean living.”
“Well, I won’t argue the good genes part, anyway.” The wineglass on the counter still holds the dregs of the two bottles of wine she drank last night.
“You should,” she replies with a snort.
I want to ask her what she means—it’s not the first time she’s made a derogatory comment about her family—but she’s got off-limits signs posted all over her when it comes to them. So I settle for bumping shoulders with her as I refill my own coffee cup.
She returns the bump, then smiles sweetly at me. With that smile, her short green hair sticking up in every direction and the remnants of last night’s mascara pooled under her eyes, she looks like a little kid playing dress-up. Dress-up in a punk rocker’s closet, mind you, but still dress up.
At least until the smile fades and she pins me with a look meant to bring better women than me to their knees. “Details. Now.”
“Ethan and I made up.”
“Believe me, I know. My room’s next to yours and the walls aren’t nearly as thick as you think they are.”
“Oh, God.” Embarrassed heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She waves airily. “Since I wasn’t getting any action last night, it’s good that someone was.”