She shines with her own fire like a punishing angel vowing feminine wrath. And she rained it down on three of us. So far.
He crouches on the other side of the woodpile, blowing me a kiss. “Ye’re so pussy-whipped, ye ready to build her a coffin.”
I see red. And it’s not his fucking hair.
I jump right over the woodpile and tackle him to the ground. We hit the dirt hard, fists flying, bruising and beating, bloodying each other. Clothes rip until we’re in nothing but our boxers.
Rory’s a fast fucker, and he’s cunning and violent. But I’m stronger, and he fucking knows it. My blood boils, probably hotter than his for a change. He gets a solid blow to my ribs, then my jaw. I slam him down, roll on top of him before he can open his goddamn mouth, and shove my axe handle right against his throat. He chokes, kicking, hands flailing against my sides. But I don’t ease up.
“Admit it,” I snarl, pressing down harder on his chest. “Admit it, you sick, twisted son of a bitch. Admit you have feelings for her.”
“Go to hell, you tree-humping twat!” he rasps.
Growling, I grip the base of the axe, then his jaw, and plunge the handle into his mouth…as far as it can fucking go.
He gags. Spits. Chokes.
When I pull it out, he snarls, “Ye think choking me out makes your wood harder, you axe-wielding eejit?”
Both our boners are raging. So, it obviously has. It’s pathetic. Hilarious. Infuriating.
We’re all sweat, blood, and bare bones. Our breath saws in and out like rabid animals. Heartbeats thundering against one another’s. Blood’s in my mouth—his or mine, I don’t even care.
He wants to run that smartass mouth? Fine. One more insult, and this handle’s going somewhere even his big mouth can’t talk out of.
“Confess, you bleeding cunt,” I order, “and I won’t stick this where the sun don’t shine.”
His eyes blaze. He narrows them and eyes the handle, wet with his saliva. Some part of him fears I’ll do what I said, but his hot stubbornness overrules any common sense.
Jutting out his chin, neck muscles bulging, Rory hurls out, “Ye got an axe to grind with me, blue balls boy. But I’ll bet my butcher shed I can wake Snow White with my twelve-inch timber!”
I’m done. Fucking done.
Gripping the back of his hair near the nape of his neck with one hand, using all my leverage to roll him over, getting him in position.
Ripping down his boxers, I spread his cheeks, get the handle against his asshole, and shove it inside, stretching the ring so wide, he roars and screams like a banshee bitch.
“FUCKyouthickkissarsebleedingmaggOOOT!”
With the devil in my blood, I push it in more. Love watching him writhe like a beast under me, all his ass muscles struggling to get it out, his legs kicking behind me, wearing holes in the ground, flying up dirt.
“Had enough yet?”
He howls, “Yefeckingpatheticvag-sniffinbollox!”
I twist the handle evilly. Go in one more inch. God, his ass is strong. His hands are flailing like tree branches in a storm, leaving nail marks and bruises on my side. But I don’t let go of the back of his neck. I don’t remove the handle.
“Alright! Alright!” He slams his fist against the ground. “Sweet bloody Jesus balls! Get yer wood out of me!”
“Say it first.” I won’t let up. Lord knows if I do, he’ll just retract it. “You feel something for her. Admit it.”
“Fine! I care, alright? I give a shite. There. Write it in blood on your mother fucking axes.”
I still don’t let go. Rory coughs. And squeals.
“More.”
“You want me to fecking sob about it? Sing her lullabies? I think about her when she’s not around. I hear her hellish humming in my head all damn day.” His chest heaves, a muscle bouncing in his jaw. “She makes me feel things I didn’t sign up for, and it’s fecking annoying. Happy now?”
