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When that revolution is fuckinggorgeousand needs someone to fuck her through her heat?
I growl and rake my hands through my hair as I stand at the kitchen counter, wondering what she might want to eat. I typically just have a couple eggs and bacon--nothing fancy, but nice and comforting. On some level, I know I shouldn't be agonizing over what to feed this girl--she's lucky I'm willing to give her shelter at all--but she's gotta be starving.
I certainly am.
Just not forfood.
I didn't sleep a wink last night, and there's not enough coffee in the world to get my head on straight. I tossed and turned all night, wondering if I should just give up and go to her room, kick down the door and bend her over. She would love it; I know she would. I could hear her every so often, whining and crying out when she touched herself.
I've been hard on and off for hours.
Fuck fuckfuck.
I finally decide to just make her an extra plate of my usual breakfast, and I serve up two eggs and a few slices of bacon on a plate for her, along with a cup of coffee. I don't have any creamer--I take mine black, and she'll have to do the same. It might help calm down her heat, if only a little. I steel my resolve and go to the guest room, then I knock on the door.
"Hey," I say. "Uh...you awake?"
Her voice is small when she responds. "Yes."
"I brought you some breakfast," I tell her. "I'm gonna leave it by the door and you can come get it, then I want you to lock yourself in again, okay?"
She doesn't say anything.
I gulp. "Uh...you okay?"
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks, her voice barely audible through the door.
"Because I had to take care of someone else like this once," I say, trying to keep my voice as level as possible. "You should eat."
Her scent gets closer to the door, honeysuckle and champagne. She smells like money...likedirtymoney, wealth and decadence and pussy.
Fuck, I've got to get away from here before she opens the door.
I put the plate down and unlock the deadbolt on my side before I hustle back to the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of coffee for the sake of doing something with my hands. I listen as I hear the plate scuff on the floor...then, to my relief, the door closes again and the lock clicks into place.
Thank God she fucking listened.
I close my eyes for a moment and try to pretend I can breathe again.
Not that Ican--that would be unrealistic.
I don't intend on breathing peacefully until she's gone, and that damn scent isn't filling my lungs and making me crazy.
I hear the door open again a little while later, and then the plate clinks on the floor. She must have been hungry; I notice that the plate's been licked clean, and I have to clench my fists in order to resist the urge to go to her and make her lick something else clean.
I'm not a fucking psycho. I'm just frustrated.
I'm not a fucking animal.
I brew up another cup of coffee and drink it black, then I head to the shop's lobby and light some incense to try and make sure it covers up Kendra's scent. That helps a little--and I have clients today that I need to deal with.
A good distraction...and the incense helps.
My first client comes in as soon as I unlock the door, and I spend most of the morning working on a sleeve with an underwater motif. We chat about the guy's day, what he has planned for the weekend--the usual smalltalk. It's almost enough to make me forget about Kendra, about the Enclave, about...well, everything. It's always weird to remember there's basically a war on when I'm back to business as usual, tattooing clients like I don't have a care in the world.
The guy doesn't speak much after that--he just wants me to fix the line work on the arm I just finished, and so I do. I spend the afternoon just sketching up some new designs, trying to focus on the pieces I've got on the schedule for next week instead of thinking about what might happen after I close up for the day.
But I'm not thinking about her.
