He hissed again, and I knew I’d cut him again. Shit. But he still didn’t move or speak, just breathed, exhaling slow, almost like a sigh of relief. “Keep going,” he whispered, sounding breathless and raspy this time. Heat rolled off him, and I could feel his chest under my hand, the slow, steady breaths almost sounding calm and spent, like he enjoyed it. He liked being cut? Or he liked the fear? Again, I was reminded of the night driving his car. I’d loved how he didn’t get mad at my mistakes and waited for me to do things at my pace. Just like now. He wasn’t mad I cut him. But maybe there was
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