The room was warm post-coitus, though the window was partly open, letting in the scents of sweet summer air. Martín's fingers trailed across Mirko's bare chest, passing through the hair there and over to his shoulder, where they found a scar- a patch of raised tissue, round and roughly the size of a coin.

"Where did this come from?" he asked quietly, and his expression was mischievous.

"The war," Mirko said plainly. "A bullet landed there."

"Oh, no," Martín murmured, and he licked the mark, quick and kittenish, still looking Mirko in the eyes. That was almost too much. They had just finished sex. Mirko supposed he was in one of his...wilder moods.

Martín backed up, crawling down the bed like an animal, each movement slow and languid until he found another scar, this one broad and thick on the side of Mirko's chest, where his ribs lay buried beneath thick walls of fat and hard muscle.

"...and this?" He licked this scar, too.

"A burn," Mirko said. "For not talking."

A little flash of displeasure crossed Martín's face, but only for an instant, and then he was back to looking wicked, biting his lower lip as he rubbed down Mirko's belly to find another long, thin line tucked into his flesh, just above the hip bone.

"What about this one?"

Mirko forgot to think for a moment, too distracted by how Martín's tongue trailed up his skin, hot and wet and very close, now, to his awakening manhood.

"In prison," he managed. "The word is, uh…"

"You got shanked?" Martín purred, and he tittered softly. "Poor Mirko."

Then Martín's tongue found something else to lick, and Mirko made noises that contained no words of importance at all.