“Two hundred fourteen,” I lilt, not pausing for an instant.
His entire body flexes, skin stretched tight over every knuckle, his nostrils flaring.
I grin. I have no idea how many times I was with Maverick J., but damn do I want him to beat that fake record. Starting now.
“Did he fuck you in this tub?”
My chest jumps in a silent laugh. “Does he look like he even got on top?” I lie. I was always under him. “He was the laziest fuck ever and spilled more tears than seed.” That part is true.
Eli tucks his legs under him and reaches for his pocket, eyes twitching with a determination sharper than the blade he draws from its sheath. “So he didn’t spread your legs open like this?” He pushes on the inside of my knees with the cold metal, leaving shallow slices behind as he parts my legs.
I inhale at the sting, but more so at the way it makes my core wind up in knots. Blood dribbles down my inner thighs in jagged lines, hitting the water and turning it pink. He presses the flat of the blade against the fresh cuts until my legs hit either side of the tub. And I’m exposed, save for the blurry layer of liquid privacy.
“No, he didn’t.” Without my knees to block me, I cross my arms over my breasts.
Eli dips his knifeless hand underwater, gliding it along the bottom of the tub, closer and closer to me, to my bare skin.
“You can’t touch me,” I remind him, as if it’s not the only thing we’re capable of thinking about right now.
Barely a fingernail away, he stops. “Lift that little ass.”
I do. Mostly because I don’t know how to say no to that. And partly because I’m afraid what might happen with that knife in his other hand if he’s suddenly struck with pain. I hold onto the sides of the tub and raise my hips.
“That’s my good girl.”
I nearly drop back down onto his hand with the tidal wave of blood that surges between my legs at his deep voice, at those words. My legsshake as he slides his hand beneath me, reaching all the way back to the drain plug. He pops it out.
The water glugs and gurgles through its rapid departure. Eli pulls his hand out from under me, and I drop my ass back down sloppily, now feeling the tug of gravity as the water rushes out, the cold air on my wet skin.
The last slurp down the drain leaves me naked before him, unshielded. But I don’t close my legs. Instead, I gather a trickle of blood up near my knee and guide it down and down with my thumb. And down, spreading it to the crease of my upper thigh.
Eli’s breath falters. He swallows hard before he’s able to speak. “And did he lick your thighs clean from the blood he drew?”
“Not once.”
He stows his knife again and flips it around, holding the sheathed blade in his fist. “Did he ever tell you how sweet your pussy tastes?” I hold my breath as he drags the handle up my slit, collecting the slippery wetness already leaking at his words, then up my thigh through a fresh trail of blood. He pops the handle into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“He wouldn’t know,” I admit in broken huffs.
“Mmm.”
That sound might kill me.
“Good,” he coos, so quietly I shiver. “I didn’t feel like pausing this to cut off his tongue.”
“No,” I agree, breathless.
It only encourages him. “And how many times did he tell you to turn around and get on your hands and knees?” He swirls his finger in a circle and looks at me expectantly, brows high and lips tight.
“I-I don’t recall.”
He rests the head of the knife at my entrance and stares me down, eyes blacker than the scars on his soul. I pant, losing the battle with my hips, pushing forward against the handle.
The tip pops inside me. Even that little bit has me moaning.
“How many?” he asks.
“Maybe twelve,” I choke out.
