Star’s existence was leashed aggression. So when he’d take her to the floor, letting his control slip, Pinky reveled in it. All that anger was passion to her. Soft curves gave way for rough edges and the friction was so unbelievably good. She wouldn’t break with rough handling. And he knew it.

She loved that about him.

One hand wrapped tightly in her hair marked his control, but the other braced his weight. There she licked his skin, drug teeth across marked fingers. Mouthed over tattoos and scars. Worshipped the proof of life, of will to survive… and gave thanks.