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Gripping the back of her head, I drag her closer. Her lips part on a gasp, her hand clutching my thigh as she falls into the kiss. Sweeping my tongue into her mouth, I let her feel my need for her. How crazy she makes me. She moans, meeting me with her own desperate desire as we lose ourselves in each other.
Her hand strokes up my thigh, making me groan into her mouth as she trails it across my hard-on. In warning, I bite down on her lip, and she breaks. Her teeth crash into mine as we fight each other. Both battling for dominance. I’m so lost in her, I don’t even notice her slipping her hand into my boxers where I have my knife clipped until it’s pressed against my throat.
I roll us over, and her knees slip to either side of my hips as she glares down at me, knife poised, pressing to my vulnerable neck. Smirking, I tilt my head back, giving her better access as I watch her. Fuck, she’s magnificent.
“I’ll do it,” she snarls, her pussy resting against my hard, boxer-clad cock. She’s a liar. I can feel how wet she is through the thin fabric. She flicks her grey hair back, observing me like she doesn’t know what to do next.
My poor, lost little bird.
“Do it, spill my blood. I’ll die happily with you on top of me…fuck, you could even screw me while you’re doing it. Just think how hot that would be.” I groan, reaching up and gripping her hips, dragging her back and forth across my cock. Her lips part on a moan before she shakes her head and digs the knife in deeper. I feel it slice my skin, a fleck of pain zapping through me.
Grunting, I thrust up, making her bounce on me and dig the blade in deeper. She cries out, pulling the knife back as I feel my blood dripping down my throat. It’s not enough, I want more. I want her to do whatever the hell she wants.
“More,” I demand.
She shakes her head. “You’re seriously nuts.”
I smirk. “And you love it. The choice is yours, so what are you going to do, Little Bird? Kill me? You could cut off my hand to get out of this building. You would be free, I wouldn’t even fight you.”
“Why?” she questions, confused, the knife only resting against my skin.
“Why not? You said it, I’m crazy.”
She sits there, atop me, debating whether to kill me and escape. She’s smart, she’s playing it all out in her head. “They would come after me, they would kill me for sure then.”
“Maybe.” I grin. “Or maybe you would escape them.”
She swallows, staring at me. “No, I won’t. I won’t ever.”
Ah, now she gets it.
“No, you won’t. But there’s your choice, Little Bird. Run for the rest of your life and hope to escape them, or use that knife for something that ends with us both having a good time.”
She looks at the knife, tosses it down next to me with a sigh, and rolls over, flopping onto her back beside me. “Fucking assholes, came in and ruined my goddamn life.”
“Did we really?” I inquire inquisitively, not bothered if we did.
She doesn’t look at me, but bites her lower lip. “I love my bar.”
“Anything else? You had no real friends, no constant lovers…all you had was the bar.”
She looks at me then with tears in her eyes. “Bars don’t hurt you. Bars don’t betray you. I loved someone, so deeply, and he left.”
“He left you?” I ask, eyes narrowed at her loving someone other than me. I want to kill him. Would it be too much to hunt him down?
She snorts. “Well, in a way, but that bastard,” she growls, “went and fucking died on me. The only fucking person who ever gave a shit if I ate, if I slept, and if I was alive, and he died. Not even my own dad did, and my mother didn’t even know I was there, she was too drugged up to care. But Rich, he did. He took me in when I had nothing. He gave me a job, a home, and then he fucking died.”
I consider her words. “He owned the bar?”
She nods. “I was already working there to pay off my dad’s debt when I finally got emancipated. I was living on the streets, and he noticed. He gave me the place above the bar, paid for the furniture and everything. Gave me a job, bartender then manager.”
“How did he die?” I query, prying. At least I don’t need to kill him. But I’m still jealous of the love in her voice. She doesn’t get to love anyone but us.
“Cancer,” she whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks before she dashes them away, not letting even that weakness escape her. My brave little bird. “It was horrible, so fucking fast. By the time we found out, it was too late. The bastard went and left me the bar without telling me, told me it was my home now. Hoped it gave me a better future than him.”
“I’m sorry, Little Bird.” And I am. She’s been through so much, survived so much, the scars painted across her body and soul. She doesn’t realise she’s more like us than anyone else. Maybe I should try and explain.
So even though I’ve never told anyone, I rip open those old wounds, the ones that poisoned me, just so she might understand. “My mother was a junkie too.”
