Their Beautiful Madness
It's worse than any broken bone I've ever had.
I drop onto the edge of my bed, chest still heaving. My hand is stained red, knuckles torn and raw, but the only thing that burns more than the sting of broken skin is the image seared behind my fucking eyes.
Beatrice.
That long, straight, brown hair. The kind of hair I ache to tangle around my fist and pull until she whimpers. The way it framed her delicate face. Those big, soft, honey brown eyes wide with want. And her mouth. That perfect fucking mouth. Lips parted to let out those shaky little breaths I felt ghost across my skin. The way she surrendered beneath me—unsure, unsteady, and sweet enough to drive me insane.
Bab Populer