1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I close my eyes again, hearing what he’s saying. I changed, because I
didn’t think what I brought to the table was worthy enough. I let them make
me believe that, but who made them authorities? I may no longer be adored,
but I might not be so miserable, either.
And I may eat alone, but that’s not such terrible company, is it?
I feel him move under me, and then a blanket covers my legs and body,
locking our warmth in under the covers. I slowly drift off to sleep to the
sounds of the rain and his heartbeat.
A velvety tickle glides across my skin, and I strain to lift my lids. The room
is darker, the sun having set, but the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside
table illuminates the bed, and I glance over at the window, seeing that it’s
now dark outside. The rain pounds hard, echoing through the roof, and
thunder rolls outside.
Misha is bare-chested and propped up on his side next to me, his head
down by my ass.
Which is bare, because he’s pulled up my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh, don’t move,” he orders, moving a pen over my skin. “You’re the
closest thing I have to write on.”
I snicker, closing my eyes again. He’d better not be using a Sharpie.
That’ll take days to get off.
The peaceful noise of the rain outside lulls me back into relaxation, and
I fold my arms under my head, feeling the felt tip move quickly over my
skin, stopping every so often to dot an “I” or poke a period.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I muse.
“Oh, you’re not moving anytime soon. Your ass is too nice to look at.”