Page 7 of Sick Like Me

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I growl.

“I wasn’t aware we were emotionally invested enough to feel the absence of each other,” she replies simply, a note of confusion in her tone.

A laugh bubbles out of me, a huff of irritation escaping my nose, “Oh? You weren’t?”

Her eyes are slow in their slide to mine, the blue colouring of them like gold speckled sapphires in the dark, mesmerising. She blinks, just once, and then she scans her gaze over my face like she’s taking stock, filing the image away for later. It gets my dick hard, those big fucking eyes on mine, her attention, all on me, intoxicating, it takes my breath away like a punch to the gut.

“You didn’t die then,” she says plainly, as though it’s nothing more than a mere observation, like she feels nothing when it comes to the question of my existence one way or another.

I lick over my front teeth, clenching my jaw until my molars squeak, “Stop avoiding my question, where have you been?”

She holds my gaze, it feels like long, long seconds go by at a snail’s pace and then speed up like there was no wait for her clipped answer at all.

“You broke my door, left severed limbs on my flo-”

Without conscious thought, I move. Springing up from the floor, my fingers and thumb squeeze the sides of her neck, my palm a shackle around the front of her throat. Air whooshes out of her in anoomphas I rush her backwards and her spine connects with the mattress as I shove her down. Knees bracketing her, I straddle her waist, one of her arms trapped between her side and my knee, the other free between us, limp on her belly.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Her chest heaves beneath me, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t even look mildly concerned. “Why?”

The tips of Ozzie’s fingers graze my thigh, her eyes dropping to watch her hand moving to stroke across the inside of my leg. Even with jogging bottoms on this time, the material thick, her touch scorches and scalds my skin like we’re bared to one another.

“I haven’t,” she replies quietly, her gaze still tracking the subtle movement of her fingers.

Her pulse is strong and steady beneath the tight grip of my fingers, heart an even beat beneath my other palm pressing flat to her sternum, nothing indicating a lie, other than her lack of eye contact.

“I’ve just been,” she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, razing her front teeth over the plump, pink flesh, “busy.” She gives a little shrug as she says it, as much as my pinning her will allow her to move. “Why do you care anyway?” she asks gently, in that soft way she always does when she’s with me, it’s a genuine question, not a sarcastic spit of a phrase intended to dislodge me or get me to fuck off.

But it’s not a casual question to me.

Why the fuckdoI care?

But images flicker through the forefront of my mind like they’re stuck on a never ending merry-go-round. My dick, her blood, the blissed out glazing of her big eyes, the feel of her lips sucking my tongue, her cunt squeezing around my cock.

And just like that it seems obvious.

“Because you’ve infected me.”

“Infected you?” she questions, finally giving a reaction then, flicking her gaze up onto mine, a slight grimace tightening the slant of her mouth.

“Mmm,” I hum, holding her gaze, rocking myself over her, my cock thick and hard against her belly. “You made me sick.”

“Sick,” she repeats like a statement as opposed to a question, blinking hard.

“Yes, Little Ghost, sick.” I flex my fingers around her throat, shifting my other hand up her chest, catching the weight of her tit in my palm, my thumb grazing over the sharp point of her nipple pressing through the fabric of her sweatshirt. “Sick in the head, sick in the heart, sick in the soul.”

I say it like a mantra, lowering my gaze to watch my thumb circle her nipple before dropping my head down to bite it. Ozzie hisses as I bite and then suck on her through the material, her dark, seductive scent filling my lungs, black cherries and something more, her free hand lifting to the nape of my neck, fingers curling into my hair.

Her back arches, pushing her chest up higher, like an invitation to feast, but I don’t push my way beneath her clothes, I don’t give into the insane impulses of my cock. Instead, I lick my tongue up the side of her neck, the tip of it skimming over top of my fingers and press my lips to her ear.

“You belong to me now,” I inform her, nipping at her lobe, “so don’t let anyone else touch you again, or those hands won’t be the only ones in your collection,” I whisper, lips skimming the sensitive skin beside her ear.

She gasps softly, her breath hot and humid against my cheek. I hover over her for another moment, revelling in the feel of her fingers against my skin, nails scratching gently over my scalp, then I push myself up and off of her. Leaving her sprawled out on her bed, with a heaving chest and a busted door. Stalking back down the hallways with the forbidden taste of her on my mouth.

Chapter 4

Ostara

Sick.

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