I carried her like she was made of air, her mouth a brand against my neck—sucking, biting, marking territory that would bloom purple tomorrow. Her bedroom was her—scrupulously organized, clinical even, with medical journals stacked neatly on the nightstand like silent sentinels of the life she was about to detonate.
"This is happening," she breathed as I set her on the bed, pristine duvet pooling around her. The words weren't wonder. They were disbelief. "I'm really doing this."
"We can still stop," I offered teasing her, though even to me too, the thought of stopping now felt like amputation.
"Fuck that." She dragged me down, her kiss furious, desperate. "I've been responsible my whole fucking life. Tonight, I want to burn." She bit my lower lip, drawing blood. "Tomorrow, I'll hate myself... but tonight..."
"Tonight, you're just Valentina," I finished, tasting the coppery tang of the bite.
