KENJI
The sight of her is a masterpiece I painted myself. Collapsed over the arm of the chair, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, hair a wild cloud, every part of her trembling from the ruin I just wrought.
A slow, satisfied smirk pulls at my lips. Mine. Utterly and completely.
Then the reality of my own body kicks in.
A hot, sharp sting blossoms in my side, cutting through the post-sex haze like a shard of glass. I look down.
Shit.
A dark, crimson stain is spreading through the fresh white bandages, a blooming flower of my own stupidity. I must have torn the stitches.
The pain, held at bay by adrenaline and lust, now rushes in, a deep, throbbing ache that steals my breath. The room tilts slightly.
"Shit," I grit out, my hand flying to my side to press against the hot, wet fabric.
Nicole's head snaps up at the curse. Her hazy, sated expression evaporates, replaced by pure, unadulterated horror.
