Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(71)
A flash of rage passes across Cranwell’s face. But he doesn’t risk lashing out, not as a couple guys from the gym enter the bathroom and nod in my direction. “No fuckin’ idea,” he finally says.
“I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something to attend to. Oh, and Mr. Cranwell,” I say, letting my eyes drop down the length of him and back up again, “I’m afraid I can no longer be your doctor. I hope you’ll understand.” With a final, cutting glance, I focus on my reflection, harnessing every last thread of restraint to keep myself from killing the man next to me.
“That’s probably for the best for both of us,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder just as I pierce my skin with the needle. The point scrapes within my flesh. “Have a great night, Dr. Kane.”
I don’t look at him as he leaves the bathroom. I just finish my stitches, a line of ten that curves from my forehead to the swollen flesh of my upper eyelid. When I’m done, I pack my supplies, throw away my gloves and the gauze and the towel that’s stained with slashes of crimson. I toss on a shirt and a hoodie. Splash some water on my face. And then I grip the edges of the sink. I lean closer to the old mirror, the surface marred by scratches and imperfections. I don’t think I recognize the man looking back at me anymore. And maybe I like it.
I leave without another word to anyone, going home and straight into the shower. Despite the pain and the rage and the anxiety swirling in my guts, I still think of Rose.
When I shut my eyes, I can see her face, her lips parted, eyes hooded and locked on me. I can hear her moans. Her phantom touch is there on my back, caressing my shoulders. I grip my erection and imagine sinking into her tight pussy. Her desperate cries roll through my mind, swelling and falling in the same pace as I stroke my cock. Every detail is so clear. The feel of her flesh beneath my palms. The peak of her nipples. The blush in her skin. I can’t help myself. In my fantasy, I lean closer. Closer, and closer, and closer, until I slant my mouth over hers and dissolve into a kiss I’ve imagined more times than I can count. It’s this moment that throws me over the edge. This forbidden, broken rule that has my balls tightening and my cock pulsing and ropes of cum shooting across the tiles. It’s the kiss that has me unraveling, barely able to stand beneath the scalding water, one hand braced against the shower wall. I don’t just want part of her. I want all of her. I want to consume these boundaries between us until I finally feel whole.
I press my aching forehead to the cool tile and stand in the spray until the water runs cold.
It’s a fitful sleep. I’m too riled up about Cranwell and excited about the trip to get any true rest. When I wake, nothing seems to happen fast enough. The plane seems to travel too slowly through the sky. The line at the rental car counter is too long. I can’t navigate the city streets as deftly as I need to. I try an alternative route of back streets and alleys to avoid the traffic as I make my way to South End, where Lachlan’s apartment is, the one he’s letting Rose stay in now that he’s at Lark’s place. I get stuck in traffic anyway, of course, because Boston rush hour is like that. I’m so worried I’m going to miss her before she heads out to work that I park three blocks away. I only brought a backpack, thank fuck, so I toss it over my shoulders and run the rest of the distance to Rose.
By the time I reach the fifth floor, sweat mists my forehead, the wound in my brow pulsing with every beat of my heart.
“Rose,” I say, knocking on the door. “Hey, Rose.”
“Coming,” she chimes from the other side. I can hear the excitement in her voice, the bounce of her steps across the hardwood as she approaches. The locks shift and click in the door. And then she throws it open.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” we both say at the same time.
Her eyes are locked to my stitches and the bruise that colors my cheekbone and brow.
Mine are fused to her fucking terrifying face and ridiculously hot body, the strangest contrast I’ve ever witnessed on a single person.
She’s wearing a black lace bra and matching panties, her figure a symphony of softness and strength. The lace follows the curves of her hips and the swell of her breasts, black satin straps shining with the rise and fall of her chest with every breath. There’s no detail that goes unnoticed beneath my gaze, not a single inch of fabric or skin that isn’t forever seared into memory.
And then I get to her face.
She grins at me, showing off a set of horrifying, pointed, yellowing teeth. Too many teeth, all jammed up together. Her lips and eyes and the very tip of her nose are painted black, the rest of her face in a stark white. Two curved black lines flow halfway up her forehead to make new eyebrows, her natural ones hidden under the thick makeup. She tilts her head side to side to jostle the three little bells sewn to each arm of her black-and-white jester hat.
“I’m channeling Art the Clown from Terrifier, but make it cute, with like, Dracula’s grill from Renfield. You like?” she says, her speech a little garbled by the fake teeth. She does a slow spin to show off the thong, the little triangle of lace contouring around the globes of her ass to disappear between the crack. My cock strains against my zipper, at least until she faces me again.
“I’m so conflicted. I want to fuck you so badly but I also fear for my life. It’s like wet dream nightmare fuel.”
“Honestly, that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Though I’m probably not supposed to say that. Rules and shit, right?”