“Look at me,” he demanded.
I hung my head. I didn’t want to. I knew my makeup was a mess, mascara running down my face, lipstick smeared, eyes and nose red from crying. My hair was sweaty and my muscles were shaky with exhaustion.
He knelt in front of my and lifted my face by pulling back on fistful of hair. My back arched as he pulled me up to my knees, keeping my eyes on his. Ashamed, tears leaked from the corner of my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, despite the rough grip on my face and hair. “Does something hurt? Is the rope chafing?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to look at me.” I sniffled.
“Why not?” his voice held that dangerous edge of anger that warned me I was pushing the boundaries of his patience.
“I’m a mess. I’m ugly when I cry. I don’t want you to see me that way.” My voice was small and sad and I tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let me. Instead, he smiled.
“Oh baby,” he murmured, brushing my hair back from my face. “Of course you are. I made you a mess. I fucking love it when you break down and cry, when you aren’t perfect, when you aren’t what you think is pretty.” He stroked his thumb over my lower lip, swollen from his bites and kisses.
“That’s when I think you are beautiful, because that’s when I know you’re mine.”
