CHAPTER TWENTY
BUNNY
Focusing through the glow of filtered moonlight, my na?ve, bubbling heart locks me in on Razor, the random smears of white and stained black reminding me of the splatters that kicked back on his face, the blood he would have to wipe off in order to leave the tent.
I start to slip. I start to give in and cater the oxytocin he rinses me with. But I’m so tired and frustrated, and those combined are slowly moving me closer to him. “Hi, Bunny? Hi, Bunny? That’s all you have to say?”
Staring at me silently, his thumbs flick outward and he vaguely shakes his head.
Maybe it’s the shock of me not automatically falling to my knees or jumping straight into forgiving him. But it takes him a moment to swallow, like he’s about to say something, doing his absolute best to stab me in the heart with the yearning glass in his eyes.
Jesus, it’s so irritating that I want to move from the spot I’m stopped in and straddle his lap, finally give in to my own needs and taste his massacre.
A bomb of rage steps me one foot closer, my forefinger sticking out at him. “Actually, don’t talk. I like it a lot more when your voice isn’t manipulating me.”
His dark brows furrow his eyes to annoyed slits, but I’m riding a high and cannot lose this courage.
So, I don’t let him speak.
“What’s up with Carl floating in a tank? Do you just have this knack for murder or what?” I ask angrily, my hands moving with attitude.
“Kind of,” he answers bluntly, his chest dipping and rising faster, his fingers tensing over the pockets on his spread-out thighs.
The blatant honesty stuns me. So intensely, I don’t have a reaction to him lunging forward and balling his hand into my tank top, the stretched fabric ripping at the seams as he yanks me to him.
My face heats, squeezing my hands to fists at my sides, so that I don’t touch him and break the seal I’m doing so good at keeping intact.
It’s nearly impossible when our vexed breaths are pumping out against each other, our independent ire clouding in catalyzed hedonism.
“Yeah,” he growls, a faint snarl snagging his lip and his hand twisting tighter into my shirt, tugging me an inch closer. “I kill for you, Bunny. Always have and always will.”
Always.
That would be the second always to leave me confused tonight.
“Why?” I exhale.
Releasing his callous grip, he spreads his hand out along my stomach, his fingers wrapping around my side and indenting my skin. “Because I’m fucking sick for you.”
Ugh, no-no-no-no.
Here I go. My heart’s skipping a beat to go faster, and the ache between my thighs torches up through my spine, burning away the cocoon I was trying to protect myself with.
I frown, wiping my palms on the soft cotton of my pajama shorts. “This isn’t fair, Razor.”
“What’s not fair?” he questions, studying each eye before splitting down to my mouth.
Tired, I sink to my knees in between his legs, my hands innately running up to his thighs.
“It feels like chemical warfare, constantly forgiving and dismissing the things I should fight for myself over. I just… I, um… I can’t keep doing this.
” My quiet tone breaks, the dusty pieces of my heart peppering the air.
He promptly leans up and over to the side, shoving his entire crotch in my face, infecting me with a crazy urge to unzip his cargos with my teeth.
It’s so fast, though. Just a jolting urge that washes to the surface, lingering enough to buzz me and pin my hands to him.
The chain of my lamp gets yanked, blooming warmth through the dark and forcing me to see the stains and splatters he’s sitting back down with, the frustration of his plop wafting a mix of gasoline and bleach. “This? What do mean by this?”
“You kill people,” I rush out with a squeak, my throat thickening. “I hate myself for not hating you.”
Studying me, he reaches out to my throat, tenderly drawing the pads of his fingers down my skin. “I don’t have morals when it comes to protecting you. You understand?”
Caging my neck in his big hand, he tilts his head, giving me a faint smirk to let me know he’s pleased with my flushed silence—all while using his other hand to gently sweep some hair behind my ear.
“I do understand. But I don’t know where it’s coming from or why,” I say softly.
Pulling me toward his mouth, his smirk manifests into a sharp smile, his eyes falling heavy beneath his messy hair. “I’ve gone mad from loving you. Now… I wanna know where you’re hiding it.”
Love? Lo-oh, my God.
My next inhale is deep, numbing my face and chest. “W-w-what? What am I-”
“The blade,” he slips impossibly closer, his warm tobacco breath resting on my upper lip. “You had that wild look in your eyes while coming in here… So… where is my slut bunny hiding it?”
Determined to not let him win, even though I want to, I wanna crumble into little pieces he can arrange however he wants, my lips crinkle, trying to decide if I want to stay focused on his godly face or torment myself a bit more with the way his barbed wire chain rests on the side of his stretched neck.
Both options are wilting me.
I look away for a moment, finding the strength to flick back to him waiting patiently. “And I wanna know how you got Carl in a tank of formaldehyde.”
Like I woke a beast that just fell asleep, his eyes darken and his grip on my throat closes. “Why were you in there? When?”
My face instantly submits to him, clawing into his pants so desperately the thick material jams beneath my short nails. “Earlier. I was told to.”
I can’t reach over a whisper. And I’d love to say it’s due to him applying pressure on my larynx.
But it’s because I’m a whore for him.
I’m entering Slutville. Here, with him, the air is packed with euphoria. It has me writhing between his legs with damp cotton candy sticking to my skin, wanting—no, needing him to run his hands along my body to get it off.
“Who told you to?” he squints.
“I don’t know. A voice.”
“A voice,” he echoes, as if he doesn’t believe me. Swerving his mouth over to my ear, his lips grazing my skin and his exhale jetting down my neck, he coasts his hand from my hair, tracing down my side to feel my ribs. “I’m the only voice that should be in your fucking head,” he whispers roughly.
Then, he’s locking his hand tighter on my throat and sealing his voice to my mind with a kiss on my ear.
My face pulses, a prickling numbness rupturing up through my lips. I can’t speak. I’m not sure what I would say anyway. His assertive hold on me is invigorating, and his slow exploration down to my hip is sending me down a steep drop.
Fuck me. Just fuck me already.
A panting whine breaks through my nose, hazily watching him shift to look me in the eyes, his fingers toying with my waistband.
“There it is,” he taunts, his slow, deep voice amplifying the ache in my core.
I don’t care that he found it. I’m kind of hoping he’ll want to play with me, finally put his name to use and make me bleed.
Tugging it out from my shorts, his eyes trap mine and he languidly sets the blade between his teeth, loosening his hand enough to dilute the fuzz in my face.
He tips his chin up, signaling me to stand with one palm caressing down my chest, the other grabbing my waist.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, standing anyway.
Straightening his back, he shakes his head, his eyes still ensnared to mine and his fingertips skating through the passage of my breasts.
He wouldn’t if I didn’t want him to.
That’s what excites me about Razor. He’s twisted my fear and trauma of being voiceless into this submissive role that I’m dominant in. It’s a dangerous thrill he’s sparked to life. A theme park where we get to have our own deranged fun.
“Am I in trouble?” I whisper, my thigh lightly folding over the other.
I start with a gentle squeeze, pacifying the pressure turning volatile in my pelvis. But as he nods, the blade’s glinting off the lamp and he’s teasing his fingers underneath my top.
A whine collects on the back of my tongue, my body shuddering and my thighs clamping. “Are you gonna hurt me?”
He nods again, hooking two fingers into my top and pulling me toward him.
Lust crackles beneath my skin, tingling the mist that’s turning me to dew. Saying nothing else, just breathing, I rake a hand up the sweaty hair on the back of his head, using my other to draw a finger over his prodded chain.
He observes me, a hungry depth hooding his eyes.
I notice his hand fall away from my waist, but the feathery touch he’s using to inch my top up is distracting.
Too distracting.
The panic of falling into bad habits trickles into the rush. I close my eyes, tipping my head back and shaking it, trying to convince myself to say no. But he’s pressing his lips to my ribcage, kissing with a tease of his tongue and biting at my bones.
“Razor, I-” I huff, grabbing a handful of his hair and looking back down to him.
I don’t remember what I was going to say. Him running the blade down the center of my shirt, cutting through the ribbed fabric, as he dives his mouth down to the side of my neck is debilitating in the most evil way.
Aggressively delivering his tongue to the sensitive skin, he tediously sucks on the hickey he left on me, using his knuckles to pry away the separated fabric on my sternum.
My head falls heavy, my mind light and rotating. I pant, clawing into him harder and resting a foot up on the mattress by his thigh, becoming desperate for his touch where I need it the most.
His smile stretches against my neck, his exposed teeth nipping at my carotid and his sadistic intent moving the blade over my breast.
Why is he so quiet right now?
He has a filthy mouth he loves to use. But right now, he’s kissing along the curve of my neck with a smile and inducing goosebumps to follow the path of the blade.
“Are you mad at me?” I pant out, smoothing my palm down the firm grooves of his arm.
He kisses my collarbone, teasing my nipple with the sharp edge. “Mad, yes. Not at you, though.” Shifting to meet my eyes, his lips rosy and plump from friction, he runs the blade back up the tissue of my breast, implementing a force that stings. “I love how innocent you are to me.”
Air sucks between my teeth, breaking his eye contact to watch the blade lift from the crimson line it left.
He flattens his tongue over his bottom teeth, taunting me, taking his time to move his mouth to his new mark.
I can’t resist. My hand is falling from his arm, moving around my thigh and down my butt, my middle finger sliding up the drum pounding through my core to find my swollen, ready clit.
Still taking his time, his bottom lip meeting my breast, his dark eyes snap over to the position of my arm.
I watch his gears turn, how fast he is at putting two and two together, and the speed of his carnality heightens the pleasure I’m getting from rubbing my pussy through the soft cotton—from the back.
I whimper, tugging his hair harder, my face flaming from how much my body is going to survive off this.
“You fucking slut,” he exhales, his hot breath splashing against my sweat before he’s lapping his tongue up the little bubbles of my blood.
My wrist functions harder, matching pleasure to the pain burning from his saliva. “I need this,” I rasp.
Whimpers and heavy breaths rack my chest, giving too much away, letting him know that my climax is building.
Which… has never been an issue.
But I watch sadism narrow his eyes, his cutting smile forming around the wet trail he’s dragging to my nipple.
He’s going to punish me. I’m aware. But that doesn’t abate how desperate I am, how controlling I’m becoming to reach the top of this high.
Swiftly, he’s tossing the blade on my bed and grabbing my arm, jerking it back to the front of my waist and infecting me with venomous fury.
“Razorrr,” I whine pathetically, pouting my lip, my body shaking in distress.
“Bunnyyy,” he mocks me, mimicking my expression and moving my leg away from him.
Rejection cuts me deep.
My foot hitting the floor pounds my heart harder, my cheeks simmering.
Breathing harshly through the plaguing emotions, I clench my teeth, tracking him standing up over me, having to tilt my head back from how tall he is.
He messes with his pocket, pulling something out with a tic in his jaw. “Don’t wanna kiss me, huh?”
Ohhh…. shit.
I don’t have to look away from him. The black and white mangled and stained strip he’s holding in my periphery is plenty enough.
“That’s not what you think,” I say tightly, my fingers tucking into the hem of my shorts.
Not relaxing his face, his eyes slide over to the photo strip of Ora and me—snapping back to my face with sharp heat. And he says nothing.
Trepidation thickens my spit. I swallow tensely, actively slipping away to the hands of humility.
I feel stupid.
My shirt’s ripped apart, right down the center, leaving my chest fully exposed.
“If I bend down and try to kiss you right now, are you gonna let me?” he asks hoarsely.
No. But I want you to try.
I shake my head, fighting off the prickle in my eyes.
His jaw clenches, the taut muscles twitching his ears back. “Nice, Bunny. That’s really fucking nice,” he grits out, then snatches the razor blade from my bed.
Watching his eyes leave mine as he walks around me and heads for my busted door is my own form of torture.
I only have myself to blame for it. And it’s all because I’m constantly doing the wrong thing for the right thing.
My answers.
That’s what I’m messing everything up for.
It doesn’t even feel worth it anymore.