scribbles ain’t anything special. Just a lot of bitching and moaning.”
My cheeks flame, and something makes me pry my teeth apart, spitting out, “And you’re such an expert?”
“I am,” he says. I look over my shoulder to find him nodding, his eyes closed. His head pressed against the brick, face tilted toward the sky. “More than you, amateur bunny. I know one requirement for good sappy shit? Emotion. That’s what you sorely lack. Your shit is drier than a virgin’s pussy.”
I feel my eyebrow shoot up as I shove my journal into my bag. “And I’m sure you’ve written tons?”
He smiles as though he predicted the question. “And if I say yes?”
“Then…” I lick my lips and try to sound convincing when I can’t even bring myself to meet his gaze. His hair sticks out at awkward angles. A messy fringe of it keeps falling in his face no matter how many times he impatiently bats it away with the back of his hand. “Show me.”
He scoffs. “Fine.” Setting his still smoking cigarette on the railing, he pulls away from the wall. “But you asked for this, bunny.”
He moves so fast that I barely process the moment he grips my forearm and shoves me against the brick wall. A heartbeat later, my arms are pinned above my head, and his face looms mere inches away from mine. My heart sputters as I cringe in anticipation of the pain I should be feeling.
Crushing fingers. Brute strength.
I wait…but the only sensations to register are his touch. His hot breath on my lower lip, his scent flooding my nostrils, his heat…prickling between us.
“What are you doing?” I croak, painfully aware of his nearness. “G-Get off!” I feel my knee twitch, but he shifts, ensuring any target I could assault is well beyond my reach.
“Relax.” He deliberately adjusts his grip to trap both my wrists in one hand while the other slides down to my hip, ghosting around to my lower back. “You asked me what I’ve written. Feel for yourself.” Presumably, he’s referring to his fingers, skimming my body uninvited. Each individual digit flexes against my muscle and bone, imparting their rough, scarred, and calloused texture.
“Feel you groping me?”
“No. I don’t scribble my thoughts into a fucking notebook. I don’t work on paper, bunny. I work in flesh.” With the tip of what feels like a forefinger, he traces an invisible design against my skin. My thoughts spin, unable to interpret the lightning-quick motions. Words? “My ‘writing,’” he murmurs, letting his hand fall. “Blood and pain. Ink. The only shit that makes a real mark.”
“Ink…” My gaze darts to his chest. Beneath his collar, I can see the hint of the intricate designs I know span his torso. “A tattoo? Like you know anything about art?”
But he might. The drawings scattered across his warehouse contradict me, as does the dragon etched into his skin.
Rather than say as much, he chuckles again. Up close, his almond-shaped eyes aren’t entirely fathomless. A hint of silver glints off each pupil, reflected from the distant streetlights. The glow makes him look more serious than he should. Thoughtful.
“I do,” he counters gruffly, raking his eyes down the front of me. “I know it’s more than spewing out a bunch of pretty words. My ‘art’ is in pain. But what about you? Can you even describe one little emotion, rabbit? What this feels like?”
My chest heaves as I fight to suck in air, but every breath I take is tainted with the stench of him—cloying, endless smoke. Again, I try to squirm from his reach, but he tightens his grip. “It…It feels like I’m being assaulted.”
He laughs. “See what I mean, bunny? That little brain of yours only knows how to scamper. Run. You can’t even fucking describe what you’re running from.”
“Get off. I’ll…I’ll scream,” I manage to threaten between pants. My nails dig into the wall to reinforce the boast. “I swear, I will.”
“Do it.”
I suck in another breath.
“Do something useful with all that panting.” With one hand still braced above me, he reaches over and brings something to my mouth. “Inhale.”
Smoke irritates my nostrils as the sensation of wet material prods my lower lip.
“Take a hit,” he says. “Don’t play scared, bunny. I can see it in your fucking eyes. You don’t give a shit. Breathe.”
My mouth opens, and I inhale when he lowers the cigarette. My nostrils itch with the bitter flavor.
“Good,” he grunts. “Now, exhale.”
It hurts when my lungs manage to fully empty again. Fear