Page 8 of Lace 'em Up

“Kingston!”

More snapping, but luckily, this time, it snaps me out of my own head. “What?” I mutter.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

“Mrs. Pricklestein,” I tell her, snagging the T-shirt and pulling it over her head because I can’t stand there, seeing her in that white lace stretched taut over her breasts, the hints of hard, pink nipples beneath, I can’t stand there while catching a glimpse of a plump pussy between her bare thighs and not do something stupid. “Though, I guess it should be Miss Pricklestein since you’re not married?—”

I stop, clamp my teeth together so quickly that pain radiates along my jaw.

Stupid.

Fucking stupid.

She’s sitting here bruised and battered, her dress a crumpled mess next to her, and I’m reminding her that her wedding hadn’t happened.

Because her fiancé beat the shit out of her.

“Prickle Princess,” I blurt as a wave of sadness crosses her face. Wanting her mad, wanting her to feel anything other than hurt, emotionally or physically, and if that takes her being pissed at me, then I’ll gladly make her pissed at me.

Not that it takes much.

Because she clamps down onto the bait.

“What. The. Hell. Did?—”

I touch her cheek—the unbruised one. “Prickle Princess,” I say again. “Because you’re a goddamned cactus, always throwing barbs my way.” I lift my hand away from her skin, lest I continue to touch her. “Now sit the fuck down, watch some TV”—I shove the remote at her—“so I can call the police.”

“What?” All of the pissiness leaves her face, panic taking its place. “You can’t— I?—”

“Breathe,” I order. “I can call the police, and I’m going to,” I tell her softly. “But I’m going to call Chrissy first,” I add as I see her alarm peak.

That settles her, eyes sliding closed, body relaxing marginally, enough for me to coax her back onto my pillows, those curls splaying on the navy case, making my dick twitch again.

Disgusting pig.

King Bang.

You’re not a good man.

Right. I’m not.

I exhale long and slow and silent?—

Then I tug the blanket up from the foot of the bed, carefully covering her.

And then I’m moving out of the room, the tightness between my shoulders easing as I hear the TV turn on, the sound of the streaming program load up. A glance back tells me that she’s not really watching it.

But that’s fine.

She’s not panicking.

She’s not crying.

She’s safe and staring off into space, and…

Well, I’m going to find a way to fix this.

And I have the feeling it’s going to involve murder.

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