underneath our weight. “I am not a good man.” “I know,” she breathes. “I have tortured.” I dip my lips down, brushing them against her neck. “I have killed.” Lifting her shirt with my free hand, my fingers skim up her side, my mouth tasting her collarbone, then trailing over the swells of her breasts. “And I’ll do both again, without ever regretting a thing. I enjoy them.” Her legs tighten around my hips. My hand releases her wrists, moving to cup her face, her skin soft beneath the pads of my fingers. My chest twists as my heart bangs against my ribs. “But I regret, with every fiber of my
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