𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞
My breath caught, pulse spiking. Still, my fingers obeyed, caressing the raised ink, feeling it hum beneath my touch like something alive.
Mikhail's jaw clenched so hard I swore I heard bone grind, his throat corded as his head tipped back. The sight rooted me where I sat. Those pale planes of muscle shifted under my palm with every controlled breath, and still he didn't stop me.
The air thickened, heavy, charged. Every stroke of my fingers magnified by his reaction. The silence was no longer empty—it was taut, trembling, ready to snap.
I dared another pass, slower this time, tracing the spiral. His breath fractured. A groan escaped him, his body bowing slightly before he forced it still again.
"Lena..." The sound of my name on his tongue nearly undid me. His accent sharpened it, made it darker, older, dripping with restraint that was beginning to fray.
