I turn the water off and step from the shower, water dripping down my body and pooling around my feet. Myerection hasn't flagged despite—or most likely because of—his presence.
Merci’s gaze drops downward, and his tongue darts out, wetting his lips, causing more heat to fill my groin and spread to my inner thighs.
"What's wrong?" I step toward him, not bothering with a towel. "All those johns in Miami not enough for you?"
He's off the vanity in an instant, getting right in my face. "Fuck you."
“From the way you're staring, maybe that’s what you want.” I use our six-inch height difference to loom over him.
He tilts his head back to meet my gaze, eyes narrowed. “You’re such a fucking asshole. And to think I was going to apol—”
"Lower your voice."
"Or what?" He gets louder. "You don’t scare—"
I slam my mouth against his. He freezes for a split second, then makes a small, desperate sound—a whimper that goes straight to my cock. When his tongue traces my bottom lip my brain shuts down, allowing instinct to take over, and I open for him.
His hands reach up and fist in my wet hair as I deepen the kiss while backing him into the vanity, my body pinning him in place.
We’re messy and chaotic, all heat and no grace.
I was already on the edge before he interrupted. But grinding my cock against his has me about to explode, and the way his Prince Albert piercing rubs against my length has me bucking into him like an animal about to lose its ever-loving mind.
Merci’s hands skate down to roam my bare chest, nails digging into my skin as his hips move in a desperate rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.
I groan into his mouth, my hole clenching and unclenching, and then he bites my bottom lip.
Hard.
I pull back, running my thumb across my lip. It’s one of the few places I can register pain at a normal level. Blood stains my fingertip. I look back at him, a full-bodied smirk on my lips. "You do enjoy making me bleed, don't you?"
He stares at me for half a second too long, all the color draining from his face right before he turns and bolts out of the bathroom.
Out of my room.
Gone.
Pressure builds behind my eyes. I can't make sense of the sensations in my chest, the tightness in my throat. I just need it to stop. So, I slam my palm against my temple.
And when it doesn’t stop I do it again and again.
I hit harder each time, desperate for sensation, for clarity, for something to make sense of whatever the fuck this is.
But it won't.
It can't.
Because I'm broken, disconnected, incapable of processing emotions like a normal person. And now I'm hard and bleeding and angry and something else, but I don't know what to call it because I don't know anything right now.
Why can’t I just rip my own fucking brain out and make it all stop?
Chapter 10
Merci
My new "home" at Crestwood University is a pretty fucking awesome suite—two private bedrooms, a shared bathroom and living space. Mr. Knight definitely pulled some major strings to get me in here.
It would be perfect if it wasn't for this chunk of wood threatening to box me in, which is the reason I’m glaring at my bedroom door like it's my mortal enemy. And, honestly, it kind of is.
