The one-two impact of her fist fills up his whole chest, rings his ribs and convulses his lungs empty. She's always thrown a good punch. Not like him, and any understanding he has of why that means something sizzles off his brain like water flicked onto a hot stove.

He likes it more than it hurts. Likes her nails in his skin, sharply possessive, how she demands his attention, an answer, anything she wants. His heart trips under her hand. He'd let her hold it if she wanted that, too. Squeeze it until it popped, or put it in a jar, or stroke her thumb over the throbbing raw muscle until he shivered.

He runs his own thumb over the downy nape of her neck, polishing a notch of her spine. Just because.

"Well," he says, light and breathless, "It wasn't that hard?"