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He drives into me again, bringing my arm up to his mouth and licks over the wound. The feeling is erotic and forbidden, and probably totally gross to most people, but for some reason, doing this with him only entices me further. It ignites a sinister side of me that only he could light. I drift into an overwhelming sense of pleasure, pain, and everything in between. He doesn’t stop until my thighs quiver and my eyes drift closed.
My limbs are heavy. I can barely peel my leg off Brantley when my eyes slowly peel open. “Ouch.” My head throbs, my muscles stabbing with pain and the ache vibrating between my legs is almost unbearable.
“Fuck, stop moving.”
“Well, I can’t actually move, to be honest.” I try to lift my leg again, but his hand lands on top.
Finally my eyes widen, and I take in the room. “Holy shit!” My attention flies to Brantley. Pink and red stains are smudged over the once white sheets, his hair matted and his lip cut.
I reach for it. “What happened!”
He groans. “Are you always this annoying in the morning?”
“When you’re hurt and bleeding? Yes! What happened last night?”
He whacks my hand away from his face. “Chill.”
I growl, shoving the sheets off my body. My feet are about to hit the floor when his arm is around my waist and I’m flying across the bed. He slams me into the mattress and rolls on top of me. “That was cute, Dea, but that growl will only get you fucked.”
I search his eyes, bringing my hand up to the smudges of blood that are over his cheek. “You’re a mess.”
“Mmm, but you should see him.”
“Who is him?” I say, and he slides off me.
“We can’t have that talk right now.”
“What talk?” I ask, wrapping the sheet around my body. Dried blood is caught in my hair and I touch it. “Please tell me it was your blood I was sucking off and not someone else’s…”
He laughs, tugging on his jeans commando style and leaving them unbuttoned. He turns to face me, and I pause. The stitches on his chest are fresh again, as if he needed them to be redone.
What the hell happened last night?
I step forward, but he takes one back. “I can’t answer questions about The Kings and what I do, not the specifics anyway. Not unless—” He pauses, tilts his head and I watch as his eyes fall up and down my body. “—that happens.”
“Fine, but was it only your blood, or do I need to go get tested?”
He stares at me like I’m dumb. “The fact you think I would let anyone’s blood anywhere on you is enough to make me pin you down and fuck you until you pass out. Again. You’re just lucky it’s your brother’s ceremony tonight.” He points to the shower. “Go get cleaned up.”
I stalk off to the bathroom. “What am I going to tell Bishop about the blood?”
He smirks over his shoulder, hand on the door handle. “Bishop is well aware of my blood play.” Then he’s gone.
I turn on the faucet, waiting outside the shower until steam fills the air. I wince, looking down at the cut on my arm, but find myself smiling when I rub my thumb over it, memories of last night flashing behind my eyes. My heart swells and my cheeks burn as I replay everything. I didn’t think this feeling could ever exist.
I make my way to the mirror and swipe away the condensation with my hand. A scream tears out of me when a girl is staring back at me through the mirror, hair as red as her lips. Her makeup is smudged like someone has taken dirt and rubbed it all over. She stares blankly at me, unfazed, but when I spin around to ask who the hell she is, I’m met with nothing.
Poof.
Gone.
No one there.
I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. I’m going crazy.
I wash up in the shower quickly, still slightly spooked by what I thought I saw. Once I’m out and squeezing the excess water out of my hair, I notice the painting directly opposite the mirror. It’s a portrait of a young girl, using the colors red, black, and yellow. Maybe my mind had created a face on a whim. It makes sense.
I squeeze into some fresh clothes. A plain white Gucci tee and black torn skinny jeans with nude Van mid-tops. I run a brush through my hair while blowing it out into soft waves, and then start on my skin to prep it for tonight, using a mixture of oils and moisturizers. After jogging down the stairs, I find Tillie sitting on the sofa, scooping breakfast granola into her mouth.
“’Morning!” She smirks, wiggling her brows.
“Please don’t start.” I move into the kitchen, opening the fridge and finding it fully stocked with food.
