“Yeah?”

“So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”

“But why not use your own name?”

I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.” Duh.

“Okay…” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?”

I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do?

“You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.”

I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right.

I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different. But it’s not exactly fair to throw things in their faces and hide under their noses, either.

“Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”

He kisses my hair, and I wrap my arm around his torso. No one does me better than me.

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.”

I cross my legs at the ankles, teasing, “Is that all a Thunder Bay boy can do with a girl’s ass?”

A light slap hits my right cheek, and I laugh.

But then, after a pause, he stops writing. “Have you ever…” he asks, drifting off.

It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but then I realize what he’s asking.

“Anal?” I clarify. “Well, considering I’ve only had sex once before you, I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

I certainly wouldn’t have done that the first time, no matter how naïve I was. And since Misha and I haven’t done that, then of course, the answer is no.

“So we’re virgins then,” he says, his tone making it sound like he’s kind of enjoying that idea.

“Yeah, virgins,” I grumble. “And I plan on dying one, because there’s no way you’re sticking that in there.”

He snorts, breaking into a laugh.

Capping the pen, he moves up and over me, lifting my shirt over my head. I arch my neck back, meeting his mouth and kissing him. His teeth nibbling my skin sends an electric shock down my belly and straight between my thighs.

I guess the nap helped. He slides his hand under my chest, cupping my breast and I’m already turned on.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

I stare at his lips, dipping in for more. Hell, yes.

I groan, my eyes damn near rolling into the back of my head as his mouth trails down my neck, devouring me in hot, demanding kisses. He grinds his hips into me, and I feel the hardening bulge between his legs.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “I need your words.”

Talk? Now?

His hand glides down my bare back, brushing my hair and making it tickle my skin. He takes my ass, kneads it, and without thinking, I bend my knee to the side, opening myself for him.

“Before I met you,” I say against his lips. “I fantasized about you.”

“But you didn’t know what I looked like.”

“I knew you were Misha,” I reply. “That was enough.”

He groans, nibbling my ear and dipping his hand between my legs, his fingers sliding inside of me.

I close my eyes, the pleasure of him filling me making me wetter.

“One night it was storming, like tonight,” I tell him, “the lights went out, and for the whole evening, it was dark and quiet.”

His fingers come out, swirling around my clit, and I shudder. My breath is shallow, and I’m unable to stop my hips from trying to rub into the bed and his fingers.