CHAPTER TWO
RAZOR
“Suck it, Bunny,” I demand, desperation huffing through my voice.
Stroking the pad of my thumb down her wet tongue, she forms her pretty, pink lips around my finger, looking up at me from her knees with a glisten in her big, hazel brown eyes.
My vision clears, focusing on the black microfiber rag I’m rubbing over the droplets that are long gone.
I’ve gotta stop fantasizing about her. I’m gonna end up crashing in the Globe and hurtorkill someone.
I just can’t.
She’s a sweet, little paradox that I have to make shit up in order to talk to. Otherwise, all I get is innocent smiles she wears for show.
Everyone here knows she’s wounded. But no matter how many times I sneak in sly questions, especially about what Carl does toher in her tent, she pretends like she’s fine. And I’m kind of fucking sick in the head because I honestly believe if she let me fill her once, twice, maybe three times…
Yeah. I’m gonna need more than that.
But that’s beside the point.
I think I could fill the cracks of my broken bunny and make her excited for something, teach her how to dance without the mask.
“No, you big block head! It’s on eight!” Aries shouts gruffly.
Checking over my shoulder, I catch Cash smiling in Aries’ face, his hand firm on the throttle, ready to instigate further.
He loves to piss her off. Which makes us all reap the consequence of her intentionally burning our asses with her flames in the Globe.
Aries is a firecracker. It’s fitting for her role.
She keeps hollering at Cash, her voice getting lost in him shredding his throttle, so I get back to drying my bike that’s already fucking dry, and the sneaks of white in my peripheral bug my heart, shooting my attention straight ahead.
You must love to make me suffer, Bunny.
The hateful sun is beating down on her olive tan, and her flipped, cocoa brunette hair is blowing around the white tank top she’s ripped to fall just above her navel.
Seeing her wouldn’t be enough.
No, she still has her pants undone, exposing the white lace that trims the cotton panties I’ve stared at before tossing in the washer with thoughts that would make someone’s stomach knot.
Taking in her low-rise jeans fluctuating with the roll of her violin hips, I travel back up the muscle tightening her waist—and my eyes hit hers like a knife piercing a spinning target.
She never looks for long. But this time, her acknowledging me doesn’t last for more than a second before she’s awkwardly shifting the stuff in her hands and following Ora up the bleachers.
What the fuck?
No. That doesn’t work for me.
She has a bottle of nail polish in her hands, which is a great conversation starter, a great way to touch her without it being forced.
I could rest my hand on her thigh and marvel her up close while she concentrates on painting my nails the shiny black she never strays from.
Dropping the rag, the adamant need for her attention shoves my feet into a quick stride toward the metal stairs she’s racing up.
One might say I’m tenacious. The other might say I’m clueless.
Either way, determination electrifies me, zapping live wires just beneath my chest that put me into a predacious hunt, skipping two steps at a time.
