Page 23 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

Normally, the trunk is shrouded in darkness, but I’ve been watching makeup tutorials for the last three hours, trying tohone my craft, so my screen has the trunk lit up well enough that we can see each other. He’s got one finger inside me, slowly easing it in, then out. His other hand is on my hip, squeezing softly.

“Abi?”

He jolts a little from the surprise of my voice. He’s been staring at my neck like he wants to latch on and bleed me dry like a vampire, but once he tears his eyes away from it, a smile settles on his face. “Yes?”

I set the phone beside me, facing it up so we don’t lose the light. “We need to go over the game plan.”

“We’ve been over it twenty times. It’s all we’ve talked about these last few days.”

My entire body trembles when he twitches his finger inside me. Thankfully, it seems he’s just been teasing me, because his finger does this thing where he rests it right against my magic button, petting it like a puppy. Not enough to entice, but more than enough to ease some of my tension.

“When we get there, can we tell my parents we’re just friends? No one needs to know we’re legally married, do they?” I ask, but I’m too worried about the answer to wait for his response. “Then, once this is all over, we’ll get an annulment, and things will be right with the world again.” I’m not sure what the hell he’s chuckling about, but I don’t care for the condescending tone.

“You realize your biffle has lips like carnival cars, yes?” he says, making absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“Lips like carnival cars?”

He nods. “With the horns that go toot-toot. You ride them around and bump into each other. Bump, bump, bump; just like Scotty’s lips. He can’t keep them closed. If I were a betting man, I’d bet everything I owned that it comes out within the first five minutes.”

“Yeah? Well, do you know what I think? I think this wholeRussian accent thing you’ve got going on is nothing more than smoke and mirrors.”

“I do not smoke, Tatum. You know this.”

This ridiculous man.

Groaning, I bang the back of my head against the wall of the trunk. Seconds later, the car’s back seat jerks forward, sending light barreling in, and Brody shouts for us to, “Calm the fuck down in there,” before slamming the seat back in place.

“Hope he cries?” Abi asks, his voice soft and affectionate.

“Hope he dies,” I agree.

“Hope he?—”

“No, Abi,” I say, covering his mouth with my palm. “The joke’s gone on long enough.” I watch as his eyebrows furrow, loving the look of annoyance on his face. The man is basically a saint—murder and mayhem aside—and each time I see him unleash his unhinged side, I want more. I need more cracks in the façade. More fire outside the bedroom, or, in our case, outside the Winawana Wagon House’s lobby. I pull the irritation out of him so easily, like a housefly that refuses to fuck off when asked.

His tongue pokes out, repeatedly lapping at my palm. My hand twitches in anticipation, because his cheek is right there. Right in front of me. Begging to be touched. Demanding I slap the taste out of his mouth. I think he feels it too, because the longer he looks at me from the corners of his eyes, he almost looks bloodthirsty.

There’s pressure against my palm, and it takes me a moment to realize the son of a bitch is biting me. Not enough to puncture the skin, thank the Goddess, but enough to make me wince. I pull my arm away, because if I don’t, I’m going to slap him silly, and that would mean letting the bastard win. I fall on my back and refuse to budge.

“Is little baby Tatum going to cry now?”

“Fuck you, trash,” I hiss.

“Will he go waah-waah-waah, with the crying? Boo-hoo. It is all you do.”

“Die,” I bark at him. “I amsonot the boo-hooer. If anyone’s the boo-hooer, it’s you. Boo-hoo, the man I kidnapped won’t slap my face to give me a cheap thrill. Boo-hoo, I haven’t shoved my finger up his butt in over an hour. You boo-hoo, Abi. You boo-hoo!”

He snorts a laugh as he rolls on his back, his finger sliding out of my hole, making me gasp. He reaches for his small bag at his side and pulls out a package of wet wipes. My entire body tenses, because if he’s cleaning himself up, it means he’s done with the finger-fucking portion of our trip. It means we’re inching closer to Hell on Earth—AKA, The St. James family home—and we’re going to have to behave like rational adults again. Part of me craves the normalcy of suburban life, but there’s a bigger part—probably the biggest part, if I’m being completely truthful—that wants Fee to turn the car around and head back to Washington, just so I can feel him in me a little longer.

“Not yet,” I whisper, too self-conscious to say the words any louder. “Just a little longer?”

He stares at me for an uncomfortable length of time before finally nods and opens his arms to welcome me in. Once I’m nuzzled next to him, his finger finds my entrance and slides in with ease. The fullness he provides me feels like coming home after a long day. The familiar sense of belonging. An overwhelming urge to cling to him like a second skin. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive two weeks without this. Judging by the way his finger purposefully strikes my prostate each time he slips deeper, I’m unsure how Abi will manage, either.

“When we arrive,” he finally says, “we will say I am your friend. Your parents do not have to know.”

“Even with Scotty’s bumper car lips?”

He chuckles. “I cannot control what your friend does or does not say to your parents.”

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