Popping the lid off, I tossed it in the sink, not caring if it shattered. Then I dumped oat milk and sweet cream in until the foam reached the brim. Aggressively, I shoved a glass straw in and gulped down the delectable liquid.
With half the contents gone, I finally released the straw and looked at him.
Henley gave me an impatient stare. “Are you done?”
I held up a finger, taking another long sip. As I swallowed, I closed my eyes, waiting for that lovely kick of caffeine to work its way through my system. With my lids still closed, I said, “Speak.”
“Did you hear what I said while you were in bed?”
“Quite often, I find myself not listening when you talk.”
He frowned. “This isn’t funny, Grace. You have a hit on your head, or have you forgotten?”
I shrugged, taking another sip. What a way to wake a girl up—word vomit and reminding her of her inevitable death.
“Being murdered means no more lattes,” Henley so thankfully reminded me.
I paused, glaring at him with the straw still in my mouth.
He quirked a brow in challenge.
The man had a point.
I straightened, keeping the glass gripped firmly in front of my chest. “Repeat this stupid plan of yours.”
He sighed, pressing a thumb and pointer finger into his eyes before opening his mouth again.
This time, the caffeine gave me the energy to listen.
“We need to make it look believable,” Henley chastised.
My nostrils flared, my knife sitting heavy in its sheath attached to my thigh. I was wearing black jean shorts with fleece thigh-high tights and an old oversized tee, so the strap was on full display. “I don’t want to bloody my good knife.”
I had knives for certain tasks. My good knife was for emergencies. My bad knife was stained, dented, and used on scumbags. That one had unfortunately been forgotten at my house.
Henley crossed the storage unit—the same one he’d held me in days ago—heading straight for me. I walked backward with each step he took until my back hit the concrete wall. He didn’t stop until he was directly in front of me.
“Touch my knife and I’ll kill you,” I warned.
His head cocked. “Didn’t work the first two times.”
I smiled. “Remember what I said the other day? Third time’s the charm.”
My breath hitched as his fingers grazed my thigh. He was really going to take my knife and?—
He slid it out of its sheath slowly, his gaze falling to my parted lips. I leaned my head back against the wall, attempting to keep my glare on him despite the heat spreading between my legs. He slid the tip of the blade up my stomach, the point catching on my clothes as he went. He moved so there was enough room to hold the knife between our chests, waiting for me to take it.
“You first.” His voice was rough and heavy, lower than before. It did things to my pussy I didn’t want to talk about.
Jerkily, I grabbed the handle in one hand and tugged up the bottom of his shirt with my other. With his stomach exposed, I looked down, losing myself in the sight of his muscles barely peeking through his skin.
He was a perfect mixture of hard and soft, hot and cold—it made me too fucking horny.
Pissed at the things he made me feel, I wasted no time slicing his abdomen with the blade. He hissed in a breath, jaw clenching against the bite of pain.
Hurting him brought me far too much pleasure.
It wasn’t a deep cut—just enough to make him bleed so it would stain his shirt and be visible. This needed to look like an attack, yet getting to that point was feeling anything but.
