That’s normal. She’s a fucking liar to give everyone a false peace of mind. But it’s ticking my jaw and forcing my arm back.
My hand locks around the doorknob and I twist, giving the door a shove. “Show me.”
An unseen temptation relaxes her eyes. She tosses her hand up in the gap between us, planting her palm to the center of my stomach.
My head carousels in a frenzy, registering how wicked it feels to have her pushing into me.
I don’t care that she’s shoving me through the door. She’s got devour in her eyes while doing it.
It’s threading something tight through my veins, like my little paradox is giving me a preview of the wild fantasies that spear through her, the thoughts that make her fingertips drift between her thighs.
I backpedal, walking into the loud hiss with my eyes wired to hers. She swings her other hand back to close us in the bathroom together, and the tempo of my heart starts slipping up my throat.
“Why have you been listening to me shower, Razor?” she asks anxiously, the high of being brave adding extra gloss to her eyes.
Okay, well, she obviously fucking knows now. And I see how it could come off creepy as hell.
With our eyes fused, I step between her bare feet and run my fingers up her denim pocket. She shifts and tenses up, but I’m not dumb enough to miss her hand trying to protect the other pocket I’m not rubbing on.
“That’s why,” I hum, raising my free hand and drawing out the flat metal I fucking knew would be in there.
She shakes her head, trying to flick my fingers away, but I grab the little, bony thing and force her arm out, swiftly veering my attention down to any tracks I might find. “Where? Where the fuck are you doing it, Bunny?”
Using all her might, she attempts to tug her arm back, so I lock my hand around her wrist extra tight and snatch up her other arm.
The whimper coming out of her snaps my eyes up to the tears loading in her waterlines, but my fucking heart is racking through my chest and I’m becoming too irate to pacify her. “Pull your pants down or I’ll do it for you.”
Her brows furrow and her upper lip quivers. “Please don’t worry about it. It’s not what you think.”
“Then what-” my teeth bare, slipping closer to her panic “-is it?”
Tears drip in tandem down her cheeks. “It takes me away.”
I inhale heavily, releasing her wrists and tugging my sweatpants down on my hip. “I know what bleeding externally does for internalizedwounds.” Letting her see the bulbous scars from my own fleeting escapes, my face softens, and the racing drill of destruction slows down enough for me to think rationally.
She reaches out, and right as I hold my breath, thinking she’s gonna touch me, she retracts her hand and looks up at me through the oceans in her eyes.
“It’s not healthy, little bunny. You’re gonna eventually want more, you’ll crave it in a different spot, and if you go too fucking deep—you’re dead.”
She shakes her head again, hooking her thumbs behind the button of her jeans. “You don’t understand.”
My eyes slightly widen, and my throat numbs, watching her pry the button free and release the zipper. “Maybe not. But I’m willing to listen.”
Her hands tremble, prying the denim back. “This is embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. Talk to me.”
She takes in a shaky breath, hesitantly slipping her fingers behind her white, lacy cotton.
My knees are jolting to meet the ground, to fall to her feet for close view of her tugging her infuriating panties down for me.
Revealing the mass of steady, smooth scars and the lines of regeneration along the entire curve of her hip, where her clothes always cover, she swallows roughly and avoids my eyes. “I like the way pain trickles through pleasure. It makes the high last longer. And when I’m done… when I dry off and change… it gives me a reminder of how good I felt.”
You disturbed, little thing.
My pulse thickens, flickering beneath my skin like flashing lights. “You do it when you touch yourself?”
She hides her face in her palms and nods.
