His swift hand catches my wrist before running his fingers gently over my throat. I barely suppress a shudder at his touch, at the feel of his calluses brushing my flushed skin. “Look at what I’ve done.” His voice is rough, still riddled with the remnants of sleep and raw with the cries that ripped from his throat. He pulls back his fingers, now smudged with sticky blood.
my man is distraught
