Page 23 of Lamb

“This is your shirt,” I stated the obvious, the scent of his detergent filling my nose. “You managed to buy new everything down to my underwear, but not a new shirt.”

Lamb’s eyes raked over it, the grey shirt under tough scrutiny.

“They were sold out.”

“Of shirts?”

Lamb nodded.

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere.”

His blatant lie left no room for argument. His eyes had finished their perusal, as well, moving back up to the hair on my hair, the knotted clumps hanging around my shoulder, dampening the collar ofhisshirt.

“It’ll do.” He unfolded his arms, and the whiskey bottle popped open with a twist.

I lunged for it like a starved animal. The scent rushed up my nose, the world tilting with desperation and the intense urge to vomit slamming into me all at once. I reached out to grasp the bathroom sink, steadying myself as Lamb lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a long swig.

“Hey!” I snap, diving for the bottle.

He caught my arm, his fingers latching easily around my bicep, and he pulled. My weak and tired body followed his command, my chest slamming into his, his warmth, and scent, and body entwined with mine as soft, firm lips pressed against my open mouth.

Before I could fight or think, the wet spice burnt in my mouth, and I swallowed. Warmth rushed through my veins and nerves, and my body softened against his. His firm chest held me aloft, but I did not care. Relief washed through me like a broken dam as thoughts vanished from my mind, and all I could do was groan at the spice and bitter warmth rolling over my tongue.

Lamb pulled away, and I grieved the loss of the taste, my tongue dabbing the few escaping drops trickling over my lips.

Lamb’s lips mirrored my own, his head only a few inches away, watching my face change with avid fascination. His eyes searched mine with an intensity that dragged me closer. The gravity of his expression was strong, and for a moment, I feared I would be lost in it.

Warmth pooling in my stomach sent a tingle to my brain. the delirious fog lifted, and clarity struck hard.

Metaphorical ice water rushed over my brain as I launched from his grasp.

A mix of shame and remnant cosmic static ricocheted down my nerves as I gripped the closest surface to not fall flat on my arse.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, scrubbing my hand over the back of my mouth until my lips burned and I tasted a small tinge of iron in my gums.

“Let’s call it desensitization,” Lamb dared to say without a single spec of shame.

“So, we are going to ignore what just happened?” I growled, moving myself far out of his reach.

Lamb collected a lowball whiskey glass that had magically appeared next to the sink. He poured a finger into the bottom, sealed the lid, and then placed the glass back down and slid it closer towards me.

It was a trap. I felt paranoid and crazy, but even so, it felt as if taking the glass would drop a cage over my head.

Lamb stayed silently still. His eyes found interest in the bottle of whiskey in his hand, his hand secured tight around the top, in case I was brave enough to attempt a snatch. I was not. My eyes were on the glass, on the way the honey-brown whiskey stirred, and the spiced scent settled deep in my lungs. My pulse drummed beneath my skin, and my mouth whetted with the remnant taste. It took barely a breath for my need to shove apprehension into the back seat and slam its foot on the gas.

I seized the glass from the counter, my shaking hands struggling around the smooth edges as the whiskey sloshed from edge to edge, threatening to spill over the sides. Fear of losing my precious release, I slammed the glass against my lips, knocking into my teeth and bruising my gums.

It was sharp going down my throat, but the moment it settled in my stomach, the sweet burn rolled in waves across my body, a euphoric relief stronger and more potent than any physical pleasure. I wanted to groan and purr as it found home down my throat, my eyes rolling into my head and pain washing from my mind.

I had intended to savour it, but the second it touched my tastebuds, I had no control nor willpower to do anything but consume every last drop. Like a zombie for brains, I was mindless for that drink.

My tongue lapped the edges, milking every drop. It was not enough.

I shoved the glass back at Lamb’s chest, ignoring the boundary I had laid out for myself just a moment before. Dangerous territory meant nothing as I pressed the glass into his chest, my voice raw and pained. “More,” I gasped, fighting with my trembling hands not to drop the glass. “I need another one.”

Lamb did not move, his dark eyes languid across my face.

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