Page 67 of Mayfly

I stare at Jude so deeply I swear I can see the wall on the other side of him. “I just killed my only other friend for you.”

“And I’m trying to prevent you from ending up the same way.”

“What happened to trusting me?”

“What happened to self preservation?”

“What happened to starting a new life?”

“Do you have a death wish?!”

My left eye twitches.

He knows me too well.

It’s been one hell of a twenty-four hours, and I’ve always had horrible impulse control. But can he really blame me for taking advantage of those fleeting moments in my life when I wasn’t running scared?

Taking umbrage with the past ten minutes, I grip his belt, but only get it unlatched before he pushes me away. As thoughnothing happened, I walk back and attempt to unbutton his pants, but within seconds I’m stumbling again.

“Enough!” I scream, squaring up and punching him in the exact place I had just minutes ago. Dazed, Jude blinks as I unzip his fly and tug his trousers and underwear down to his knees.

“Curren.” He tries to pull them back up, and I slap him. “What the fuck?” I wind up to slap him again, but he pushes me back even harder than before. “Did I hit you?”

No, but you can.

“I asked you a question. Did. I. Hit. You?”

“No,” I whisper as I stand, then eye the tape still binding his legs to the chair. “But I dare you to get away from me.”

“I dare you to think this through.”

I shake my head and slowly unbutton my shirt.

Leaving my shirt on, I remove my stained trousers.

I grip the back of his neck, digging my fingernails into his skin as I force him forward until his eyes are level with mine.

Like a fucking maniac, he just stares. No movement. Not even a blink.

Why can't he see that we need this?

Why can't he just take his place?

He’s a statue of his own corruption who will never stop reminding me that he is just as stubborn as I am. So I claw my other hand into the front of his neck. “How long do you think you can last like this?”

He snarls, and wraps his hands around my neck in retaliation.

His thumbs curl into my windpipe.

We’ve reached another standoff.

I look between our bodies to his impossibly flawless dick; straight, and thick, and a shade darker than the perfect caramel of the rest of him. It’s not completely soaked, but it shows the sheer amount of blood I drenched him in that it made its way through two layers of clothing.

“You’ve been holding your breath for a while now,” I remind him, but he tightens his fingers until his grip on me is far more dangerous than the one I have on him. “I’ll let go if you sit down… I promise.”

Jude moves slowly, his movements tentative because he knows there’s a good chance I’m full of shit. As expected, he doesn’t release me even when his ass is back in the chair. But I do keep my word; dropping my hands from around his neck. And when I do, he eases his grip—though still refusing to let me go.

Far too proud of myself than I really should be, I straddle his lap and spit into my palm.

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