Page 137 of Lucky 14

“Infect it,” I say again with more conviction. I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but I need to stay here. I need to stay to protect us against Weston, and I know for sure that that weak nurturing side will get us killed.

“What?” Holland is looking up at me with an irritated look on her face. That look makes me lean into my conviction. I drop to my knees.

“What are you⁠—”

I grab her shoulders, pulling her to her feet so she’s standing over me. I need her to hurt me. To infect me. To keep me grounded.

“Hit me.” I look up at her, remembering when I was on my knees before Velvet like this. Holland’s gaze pierces mine.

“Please,” I snap.

Her hand is fast, snapping toward my cheek, smacking with an echo in the bathroom. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

I groan, the waves of pain radiating across my face. Holland’s hand is in my hair, yanking back. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Scaring me like that?” She pulls so hard that tears spring into my eyes, but she’s not done.

Holland shoves me back so hard I have to catch myself on my hands.

“Fucking asshole!” Her voice is tight with emotion and anger. “Lay the fuck down and let me help you.”

I do, wincing as lying down stretches open the cut on my leg. I take up most of the floor, lying down like this, and Holland shifts for a second, trying to figure out where to sit. As she hovers over me, all I can picture is her stepping on me, bruising me, and marking me as hers. Pissing on me to mark her territory.

The idea of her marking me sends all the blood rushing to my dick, making it stand straight up. Holland hovers for a second longer, then turns so she’s straddling my hips, sitting on my stomach, and facing away from me.

I know she can see the tent I’m making in my thin boxers as she shuffles through the kit.

That mothering part is familiar with the kit and slips out, “There’s glue.”

Fuck. No. “Don’t glue it,” I say, wincing at how contradictory I must sound. I need this wound to ground me for when I kill Weston. I need it to still hurt. I need the control.

I watch as Holland ignores me, grabbing the glue.

“No.” I buck, and it sends a delightful rip of pain through me.

“You’ll get infected.” She sounds annoyed.

“Good,” I growl.

Holland pinches the wound together, and I groan. It must be deep ‘cause it hurts like a bitch, and suddenly, all I want is for it to always hurt. I want to remember the feeling of her hips pinning me down. I want her to carve herself into the cut on my leg so I never forget her. Want her to spit in it and sew it up so she’s always in me. Want her to piss on me, letting the warm liquid of hers slide down my body, burning around the edges of the cut. A brand of sorts. The idea grabs hold of me, making me wild, and I mutter, “Piss on me.”

“Hold still.” I can feel the tip of the glue applicator on my skin.

“No.” I buck my hips enough to dislodge her.

There’s a silence where all I can hear is the thump, thump, thump of my heart and that wild need humming through my veins.

“What did you say?” Holland turns around to face me.

“You heard me,” I sneer, a mixture of shame and pure need filling me. I need this.

Holland pinches my cut together, hurting me at the same time as her other hand brushes my dick.

I throw my head back as much as I can on the floor, the pain and pleasure mixing in the perfect heady swirl.

“I want you to repeat that, exactly as you just said it.”

I open my mouth to snark her, and her hand wraps around my dick over my boxers, and squeezes, and my brain short-circuits.

“Exactly like you said it,” Holland says, her tone calm, but I hear the warning in it. My heart races with the thrill of it. I consider snapping at her again, but her hand is stroking me up and down, and I realize how much I need her.