Page 37 of Boy of Ruin
Does she really not care?
But no. She was jealous. She was fucking jealous. I know she was.
Did she poison me?
“Why?” I manage to ask, raking a hand through my wet hair.
Her jaw tightens, those silver eyes clouding with anger. “You’re fucking welcome,” she spits at me, then turns on her heel to stride to the bedroom door. Her temper has gotten worse since she’s been here and I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy or me, or what but…I don’t fucking think so.
I grab her wrist, yanking her back to me. She spins around, shoves me off, her small hands planted against my chest, sparking that electric touch in me at her nearness.
I grab her bandana, twist it in my fist, trying not to vomit as I do.
But her fingers dig into my chest, and she willingly comes closer to me, her lips parted as her breath comes out in a rush while I choke her.
This is what she likes.
And it’s what I like, too. I like fighting with her. I fucking get off on it. Hurting her feelings, having her scream at me. Defy me.
She’s it for me. She’s always been it for me, even if, sometimes, I want to rip her apart, limb from fucking limb.
“You want to lose that fucking sarcasm, baby?” I whisper against her ear, pressing my body to hers. My cock grows hard with her nearness, with pulling that bandana so fucking tight that she can barely breathe.
With her nails raking against my chest.
How she doesn’t back off from me.
“Fuck. Off,” she hisses, the words coming out hoarse.
I huff a soft laugh, run my mouth against the shell of her ear. “You want me to fuck off?” I bring my free hand to her throat, still twisting the bandana in the other. “You wanna play with me, baby?”
She’s stiff against me, and I feel her throat bob as she swallows.
“Let me go, Jeremiah, I was just coming up here to—”
“Taunt me?” I ask her, then I spin her around, yank her back so she’s against my chest. Before she can move, I grab the ends of the bandana again, wrap it tighter around my fist. I hear her gasp, her fingers flying up to the edge of the material under my hand around her throat, trying to tug it off so she can breathe.
I angle my head next to hers, so we’re cheek-to-cheek. “I don’t like this shit on you.”
She’s jerking on the bandana, frantic, trying to pull away from me. But she can still breathe, because she says, “Get the fuck off, Jeremiah,” but her words are hoarse.
I release my hold on her throat, trail my hand down to her tank top, brushing my thumb over her nipple, circling it until I can feel it pebble. She’s not wearing a bra.
She drops her hands.
Stands perfectly still, except I think she leans back into me.
Her breath comes out in a rush as I squeeze her tit, a whole fucking handful now.
“I like what’s happening here,” I tell her, turning my head, so my mouth is against her skin. I squeeze her harder, let go of the bandana at the back of her neck and wrap my arm around her waist, my fingers splaying against her bare skin, under her shirt. “You’re growing, huh, baby?” I inhale her lavender scent, my cock aching with how close she is to me.
How close she is to giving in.
Her hands are down by her sides still, but she says, “We can’t do this.”
My body feels heavy with those words, and I want to push her away from me. Go back in that cold shower. Be alone.
“Why can’t we?” I ask her instead, through gritted teeth.
