Her hands fight to remove my shirt, her nails digging into my skin. It’s agonizing and pleasurable and unadulterated. I hiss out a tense breath as her fingers hit the fresh wound on my stomach. “Do it again,” I say. She strokes the injury she inflicted with a sure hand, owning me. “Is this what love feels like?” I crave her pain like my lungs crave oxygen. “This is what our love feels like.”