“Hi, Bunny.”
His soft whisper cuts through my blistering skin, abating my misery and kissing my worries.
This isn’t healthy. It can’t be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BUNNY
Focusing through the glow of filtered moonlight, my naïve, bubbling heart locks me in on Razor, the random smears of white and stained black reminding me of the splatters that kicked back on his face, the blood he would have to wipe off in order to leave the tent.
I start to slip. I start to give in and cater the oxytocin he rinses me with. But I’m so tired and frustrated, and those combined are slowly moving me closer to him. “Hi, Bunny?Hi, Bunny? That’s all you have to say?”
Staring at me silently, his thumbs flick outward and he vaguely shakes his head.
Maybe it’s the shock of me not automatically falling to my knees or jumping straight into forgiving him. But it takes him a moment to swallow,like he’s about to say something, doing his absolute best to stab me in the heart with the yearning glass in his eyes.
Jesus, it’s so irritating that I want to move from the spot I’m stopped in and straddle his lap, finally give in to my own needs and taste his massacre.
A bomb of rage steps me one foot closer, my forefinger sticking out at him. “Actually, don’t talk. I like it a lot more when your voice isn’t manipulating me.”
His dark brows furrow his eyes to annoyed slits, but I’m riding a high and cannot lose this courage.
So, I don’t let him speak.
“What’s up with Carl floating in a tank? Do you just have this knack for murder or what?” I ask angrily, my hands moving with attitude.
“Kind of,” he answers bluntly, his chest dipping and rising faster, his fingers tensing over the pockets on his spread-out thighs.
The blatant honesty stuns me. So intensely, I don’t have a reaction to him lunging forward and balling his hand into my tank top, the stretched fabric ripping at the seams as he yanks me to him.
My face heats, squeezing my hands to fists at my sides, so that I don’t touch him and break the seal I’m doing so good at keeping intact.
It’s nearly impossible when our vexed breaths are pumping out against each other, our independent ire clouding in catalyzed hedonism.
“Yeah,” he growls, a faint snarl snagging his lip and his hand twisting tighter into my shirt, tugging me an inch closer. “I kill for you, Bunny. Always have and always will.”
Always.
That would be the secondalwaysto leave me confused tonight.
“Why?” I exhale.
Releasing his callous grip, he spreads his hand out along my stomach, his fingers wrapping around my side and indenting my skin. “Because I’m fucking sick for you.”
Ugh, no-no-no-no.
Here I go. My heart’s skipping a beat to go faster, and the ache between my thighs torches up through my spine, burning away the cocoon I was trying to protect myself with.
I frown, wiping my palms on the soft cotton of my pajama shorts. “This isn’t fair, Razor.”
“What’s not fair?” he questions, studying each eye before splitting down to my mouth.
Tired, I sink to my knees in between his legs, my hands innately running up to his thighs. “It feels like chemical warfare, constantly forgiving and dismissing the things I should fight for myself over. I just… I, um… I can’t keep doing this.” My quiet tone breaks, the dusty pieces of my heart peppering the air.
He promptly leans up and over to the side, shoving his entire crotch in my face, infecting me with a crazy urge to unzip his cargos with my teeth.
It’s so fast, though. Just a jolting urge that washes to the surface, lingering enough to buzz me and pin my hands to him.
