Page 108 of Wicked Spite
He snorts, shaking his head as he continues his work. I watch the ink seep into my skin, black and permanent, like thedarkness that always lurks at the edges of my mind. Hell and fire—words that fit me like a second skin. Just like their owner, my beautiful, bitchy, hellfire wife. Reagan will probably roll her eyes when she sees this. Maybe she’ll laugh. Or maybe she’ll trace the letters with those long, artistic fingers of hers, pretending not to care while her eyes give her away.
“Done,” Nico announces, leaning back to admire his handiwork. I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of fresh ink and raw skin.
“Thanks, fucker. You’re a fucking artist, man.” I throw him a wad of cash, more than generous for his time and skill. He grins and pockets the money, nodding his appreciation before heading out the door.
The kitchen light catches the new tattoos, making them glisten like freshly spilled blood.
I’m getting a chub just thinking about it.
With Reagan at her art class, I’ve got some time to kill. I head toward the fridge, the cool tiles beneath my feet giving me a chill. I need my damn slippers. The fridge door swings open with a low hum, revealing an array of fresh produce and neatly arranged containers. All this healthy bullshit—courtesy of Oakley and Iris—looks like they raided a farmer’s market. Kale, avocados, organic yogurt. Seriously? Where’s my Red Dye 40?
I rummage through the shelves until I find a hidden stash of Dr. Pepper cans behind some Greek cups of jizz. Now we’re talking. Grabbing one, I pop it open and take a long swig; the fizz tickling my throat and leaving a sweet aftertaste that brings me back to life.
I shut the door and move to the pantry, moving things around until I spot the bright red box of Cheez-its.
Come to daddy, my chemical covered crackers.
With my loot in hand, I make my way into the living room and flop down on the couch, slipping my feet into my bat slippers. Immediately my cold feet start to warm up.
Grabbing the controller, I fire up the console and immerse myself in the digital chaos of video games. Reagan should be back soon from that expensive ass art class I saw her eyeing a week ago, and I lovingly forced a spot to open up in that full ass class for her.
The game pulls me in, bullets flying and enemies dropping like flies. But my mind keeps drifting to my wife. If she could get the fuck home already, that would be fucking great.
The game offers a temporary distraction, but it’s her presence I crave.
The front door creaks open, and I hear her footsteps. Her boots are clomping on the hardwood floor. My heart does that stupid lurching thing, but I keep my eyes on the game. I’m still partially in denial about how much I need her, how much I ache for her touch.
“How was class, Rembrandt?” I call out, my tone casual, masking the need to touch my wife that’s coiling in my gut.
“Oh, the same. Associating with the plebs,” she replies, her voice laced with that familiar sarcasm. The front door clicks shut, and I hear her footsteps moving closer. My hands tighten around the controller.
“Got anything good to show me?” I throw a glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of her smirk.
“The only thing you want to see is my tits,” she says, tossing her bag onto one end of the couch. She slides down beside it, her movements sleek and fluid.
“Nah, I wanna see your cunt and ass also. I am a connoisseur of fine tastes, after all.”
“Move,” she commands, nudging me with her knee. I dropto the floor without hesitation, settling between her legs as if it’s my favorite place to be. Newsflash it is.
“Careful, Blackwood. Keep talking like that and you’ll find yourself begging me to fuck you senseless again.”
“Begging’s not typically my style,” I shoot back, smirking. “But if you’ve got a double-ended dildo, maybe we can both get fucked at the same time. Cheek to cheek.” I wiggle my eyebrows for effect.
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the grin tugging at her lips. “You’re such a goddamn freak, Penn.”
“And you fucking love it,” I say, my eyes turning back to the TV as her thighs bracket my shoulders.
“Delusional as always,” she retorts, and I can almost hear the smirk in her voice. Her pencil scratches against the paper, a soothing sound that I’ve come to expect.
Her eyes wander. I feel their weight, tracing the lines of my body until they land on my hands. Finally, she notices the broken skin. Her sharp inhale is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. A wicked grin spreads across my face.
“Like what you see?” I tease, flexing my fingers so the fresh ink stretches and moves. The words stand out starkly against my knuckle, raw and dark.
“You’re an idiot,” she mutters, but there’s a hitch in her breath.
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” I shoot back, dropping the controller and turning my head to look up at her. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. She’s biting her lower lip, a habit she has when she’s trying to suppress something.
“Why’d you get that?” she asks, her voice softer now.
