around us, reaches up, and marks me just like I’ve marked her. A handprintof yellow stamped right in the center of my chest.
I’m hers every bit as much as she’s mine.
We f**k—slowly at first, then harder and faster. I don’t look away from herand she sure as hell doesn’t look away from me. She’s a writhing, moaningmess of yellow and blue and bright green eyes in the midst of it all.
She comes and I come, though f**k if I know the order or the way in whichit happens. I just know that I’m losing myself in Wren Turner and there’snot a chance in hell that either of us can turn back now that we’ve come thisfar.
“God,” she breathes at last, rolling off me. “We’ve made a mess.”
She smiles self-consciously, looking down at her body. There’s evidence ofmy work all over her. Her
