Page 47 of Indie

“I saw all of you last night, Spuggy.”

“I know, but it’s different this morning.”

“Why’s it different this morning?”

“Just, it’s lighter. And the scars look worse in the daylight.”

“These aren’t scars, Emmie.” I traced my fingertips over the stretch marks, feeling her shudder underneath my touch. “These are you. And I love them.”

I nudged her legs open. The light turquoise lace knickers stretched over the little bulge of her pussy. I didn’t bend down, but stood over the top of her, gently taking her wrists and peeling them off her chest, wrapping them round her back before pinning the pair of them with one hand. Her body tensed.

“Indie?” she asked, the uncertainty now lingering in her voice.

“Shush. It’s ok, little sparrow. Trust me.” And I knew that was a huge thing to ask of her. To ask her to trust that I wouldn’t hurt her. That I would always stop if she asked me to.

I swiped one strap off her shoulder, and then the other, her body shuddering underneath me. Then I flicked the catch behind her, the dull bra popping off to reveal the tits I knew she didn’t like. But I liked them. I liked how they fit nicely into my hand. I cupped the right one, flicking my thumb over the perky nipple that had greeted me, watching as she squeezed her eyes shut, taking a sharp intake of breath. And I liked how the slightest touch over them made her flinch, how it moved her to the edge of control.

I let go of her then, peeling my own leather jacket off, catching her eyes glance over the black t-shirt underneath, then move to my arms, but never straying down my stomach or to my groin, as if she was purposefully staying away. The heavy jacket fell to the floor with a dunk. Underneath, my t-shirt was damp where the rain had soaked through the stitching. An excuse to take it off. Emmie’s eyes widened, moving over the tattoos that covered my skin.

“They won’t bite, ya know,” I grinned. “You can touch them.”

She nodded silently, chewing on her bottom lip. I grabbed her legs, pulling her right to the edge of the bed so that now she was looking up at me, her face just above my groin, and then I kneeled down, so we were almost eye to eye. She lifted her hand up, moving it towards me and then hesitating. Wrapping my fingers round her wrist, I guided her to me, holding her hand onto my chest. For a moment she didn’t move, uncertain what to do next. But then she leant forwards, placing her other hand on me. They looked so petite against my inked skin and the bulging muscles of my chest. Her fingertips smoothed across me, gentle and tentative, tracing the lines and patterns. And then bumping over the knotted skin, the vibrant ink covered.

“There’s a scar under here, Indie,” she muttered.

“I was stabbed.”

She snatched her hand away, looking up at me, alarm in her eyes.

“I was in the army, Spuggy. For years. War wounds.”

Her eyes softened, the alarm dissolving to sympathy, and she reached forward again, her fingers back on my skin, moving over my collarbone and over my biceps.

“And here?” she whispered, her hands moving across a small round circle of puckered skin.

“Bullet wound.”

“Army,” she stated, more to herself.

I smiled faintly, and she took it as my answer. But that was a reminder of a different war. One she didn’t need to know about. Her fingers moved on, searching and feeling, tracing hot lines across my skin, each gentle movement resonating deeply inside of me and sending energised messages straight to my cock.

“You’ve so many scars,” she whispered.

“I’ve had a full life, Spuggy.”

“And you covered them with tattoos?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“Because then I didn’t have to look at them every day. And I like tattoos. Win, win,” I shrugged.

She looked at me, the blue-green of her eyes darker than usual, her pupils wider.

“Tattoos, huh?”

“Don’t even think about it, Spuggy. I love looking at you as you are.”