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His palms were coarse, hard-won callouses adorning his hands.
They’d skirt across her vertebrae, rasp against the thin skin of her throat as he traced her winding too-blue veins.
She’d know his touch blindfolded, the way it made her want to crawl away and closer-closer all at once.
Ethan didn’t mind the jagged juts of her shoulder blades, never commented on the scars of bed sores past that dotted her back and hips. It was just as well, too. He never gave Vanessa reason to pry into why blood always seemed to be welled just under his fingernails, why his knuckles were so frequently worn raw.
They met in the darkest part of the night, open mouths and open hands, closed doors and closed eyes. He’d be gone by morning, just the barely-there taste of cigarettes in her mouth and shadowy bruises on her wrists to convince her it all wasn’t some dream.
She coveted every piece of him she could unravel; the growl she’d ripped from his throat one night, the sound unnatural in a way that had her spine arching out in pleasure.
It wasn’t much that they spared for each other, but, sometimes, when his hands bracketed the swan-white dip of her waist, not even the moonlight there to illuminate their greedy lips and teeth, it felt an awful lot like everything.