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Not that giving up control is always a bad thing. It’s all about context, and let’s just say that I don’t trust whiskey to respect my safeword.
He blows right past me without so much as a glance. I catch a quick glimpse of one more tattoo, a little sparrow behind his right ear, and my eyes linger on it.
Just once, I’d love to meet a man who knows how to back up all his bark with the right amount of bite. Maybe that’s just the hopeless romantic in me.
Would it be inappropriate to propose to a man while he’s in the middle of threatening someone’s life? It would be a hell of a story to tell at our wedding, if nothing else.
Maybe a marriage proposal is too much, but what’s the etiquette on buying a man a drink after stopping him from cutting out someone’s tongue with a broken bottle?
It might be an inappropriate first thing to notice about the man whose nose I just broke, but rawrrrr
I won’t be able to see him. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the moron. I’m not a fucking T. rex.
Who are you, Little Sparrow? Will you let me close if I promise to be everything you need? We could be so beautifully dangerous together. Until then, I’ll keep watching.
I’m a well-oiled machine, but you’re a goddamn hurricane, beautiful and violent, leaving a path of destruction in your wake.”
I have no idea if he’s more eager for my orgasm or his own, and it doesn’t really matter. Good boys can have both.
When I read my own obituary months ago, nothing about it felt like a lie. Seth LeBlanc died the same night his brother, Benny, did. I reach up and run my fingers over the sparrow on the side of my neck, and a slow grin creeps over my lips.
“Sure, all dates traditionally start with the threat of being tossed into the trunk at gunpoint,” he says in a deadpan tone.
An icy kind of calm descends over Xaviaro on our way up the creaky steps to the second-floor apartment. I’m not sure how I notice the shift, but one minute he’s the Patron Saint of Battered Women and the next he’s the fucking grim reaper, here to collect.
“I want to wear a collar of your bruises, Little Sparrow. I want marks on my wrists and tenderness all over my skin to remind me of the places you’ve touched me. I want to be owned and used. I want to be a vessel for someone’s pleasure instead of everyone’s pain, just for a little while.”
want you to see all the ugly parts of me and accept me for them. But mostly, I just want to let go and trust that everything will be okay.”
“You’re a sweet little murder marshmallow, aren’t you?” I tease gently, and he lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a choked sob. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” “Yes, Sir,” he says again, and the certainty in his voice fortifies me. I’m ten kinds of fucked in the head and there are a million ways this whole thing could blow up in my face, but whatever happens, there’s one thing I know for sure—I will fucking kill anyone who tries to come between me and this man.
“You’re so perfect,” Sparrow praises me again in between tongue-heavy kisses. “So beautiful, so strong, so fucking good for me.” Each one of his purred words vibrates inside of me. “You’re mine, Xaviaro,”
“And if anyone else ever touches you again, I’ll break their fingers one by one. Mine.”
“I kind of like you too,” he confesses, and a grin tugs at my lips. “Thank fuck for that. Otherwise the stalking and kidnapping would’ve been way out of line.”
“Hey, Xav?” I tilt my face so I can see his, tightening my grip on his harness and rubbing the tip of my nose against the stubble on his chin. He hums, prying his eyes open to meet my gaze. “I think I’m in love with you.” His lips twitch and his eyes droop closed again. “That makes two of us.”
“I love you, you terrifying murder marshmallow.” “I love you, Little Sparrow,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my forehead.
The rest of the ‘what’s next’ is pretty solid… It’s Xaviaro. That’s it. And it’s everything. He’s everything. “I love you, Killer,” I whisper, living and dying with the smile that spreads slowly over his lips. “And I love you, my Deadly Little Sparrow.”
