My hand tightens around the knob. “You’re plenty safe in the house, I can assure you.”
Rubbing her arms, Lenny fiddles with a strand of hair. “What if I’m not? What if someone breaks in while you’re gone, even though you have those weird bars on the windows, and I can’t escape?”
“Because of the bars.”
She nods, glancing down at her toes as they curl into the floor. I watch her for several beats, noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest, as well as the soft, vulnerable expression on her face, and a strange feeling wells up inside me.
Like I’ve been raked over hot coals and left to tend to the wounds on my own.
“All right,” I tell her, forcing irritation into my voice so she doesn’t get the wrong idea. As if this is more than just the simple fact that I don’t care to see my investment harmed.
I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that her fear makes me uneasy, because it’s not something I’ve seen from her before.
Lenny scrambles up the stairs, returning a few moments later in a pair of jeans and an old Nirvana T-shirt of mine. I cock an eyebrow as she tugs at the hem, clearing her throat when she reaches the bottom of the steps.
“It was the first thing I grabbed,” she says, and I don’t respond because I can’t admit what I want to.
That she looks delectable in my clothing.
That I wouldn’t mind seeing her in it for the duration of our little arrangement.
But enough lines have been crossed tonight, and I don’t want to add fuel to the fire.
We get to the Range Rover, and I go to her side and pull open the door, but she stops at the trunk, folding her arms over her chest.
“I don’t think you should drive.”
Snorting, I release the door and take a step toward her. “Dare I ask why?”
“You were drunk when you came home, or at least had been drinking. It’s not safe.”
“Hmm.” My legs carry me closer, not stopping even as I breach the confines of her personal space. She sucks in a little breath that I feel in my cock as I back her up against the vehicle.
Lashing out, I grab both of her wrists in one hand and bring them up, forcing her to bend her elbows so I can press them into the vehicle above her head.
“Are you saying you took advantage of me a few moments ago?”
She blinks. “What?”
I smirk, pushing my hips into hers. So close I can still smell myself on her breath, though it’s replaced with a hint of mint. “If I’m too drunk to drive, doesn’t that also mean I was too drunk for you to strip me down and let me use your throat like a cunt?”
The slightly aroused flutter in her eyes evaporates immediately, and her body goes rigid against mine. She struggles, twisting her hips and wrists in an attempt to escape, and her breathing grows uneven like the edge of a serrated knife.
Horror, finite and resolute, flashes across her face as I grip tighter, not quite sure what’s happening.
“Let go of me,” she spits through clenched teeth, some saliva hitting my chin. As she rears her head back, I think she’s about to let a wail into the night air, but instead her neck snaps forward like a whip.
Her forehead cracks against my mouth and my teeth slice into the inside of my bottom lip, flooding the cavity with the taste of copper.
Mind swimming, I stare down at her, blanking completely for a moment. The assault refuses to compute, giving her enough time to recover and jerk back to repeat the motion.
She hits again, and this time it knocks me off-kilter; I stumble back a step, stars dancing in my vision, and she darts back to the beach house.
One second ticks by as I raise my finger to my lips and bring it away covered in blood. In the next, I spring into action, lunging after her, my long legs eating the distance between us twice as quickly as she can move.
There’s no time to consider how to trap her. I simply barrel into her body, and we land in a sweaty, angry heap of tangled limbs on the ground.
A scream rips out of her throat, vibrating my chest as it rests against her back.
“What in the bloody hell is happening?” I snap, trying to shove my hands beneath her as she attempts to crawl away.
“You’re sick, and I want you to stay away from me.”
Her arse pushes against my groin, and I feel myself stir behind my trousers despite the circumstances.
Maybe even because of them.
“Well that’s too damn bad now, isn’t it? I told you weeks ago that you’re stuck with me as long as we’re pretending.”
“I want out,” she sobs, wrenching her face to the side. It’s caked in dirt and tears, and there’s a tiny cut on her forehead dripping blood. “This was a stupid idea, and I think we should stop.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t really care. We’re in it deep, my little puppet, and I don’t particularly feel like letting you go.”
Again, she screams, and this time I manage to get my hands on her hips, pulling back enough to flip her over. Fury lines the delicate ridges of her face, creasing her forehead as she glares up at me.
“Now,” I say, brushing the hair from her mouth, “care to explain to me what in the hell just happened?”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stays totally still, watching me with wide, guarded eyes that look like sea glass in the porch light.
My palms dig into the ground on either side of her head, but I feel it against my knee when her hand shifts. Sliding my gaze downward, I try to swallow down my amusement when I realize what she’s holding.
A paintbrush, medium thick and broken into a shiv-like device at one end. My sweet little puppet’s go-to defense mechanism, the weapon that makes her so uniquely her.
Slowly, she lifts her hand between us, knuckles white from how hard she’s gripping the handle. Touching the sharp end to my chest, she still doesn’t speak. The wood tip stabs through my shirt and into my skin, but just barely; she’ll need more leverage if she wants to actually do any damage at this angle.
Chuckling, I wrap my fingers around her tiny palm, urging her to push harder as I rock my hips into her. Her swallow is audible, and she parts her legs—just slightly, but enough that I feel the shift.
“Interesting form of foreplay,” I murmur, biting back a moan as she swivels her pelvis up, meeting the roll of mine. “But you always were a bit murderous, weren’t you?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says.
“I want to. Desperately.” Cocking my head to the side, I give it an incredulous shake, because I can’t believe the sentiment, nor that I’m admitting it.
“Because you think I’m weird?”
“Because I think you’re terrifying.”
With a sigh, she releases the pressure on the paintbrush, and I’m racked with the sudden, inexplicable urge to lean down and kiss her. To seal this night between us as some kind of monument, attaching it to our relationship indefinitely.
I dip down, allowing the tip of the brush to stay notched against my pec, and I don’t feel the movement of her free arm. My focus remains solely on her pretty, puffy lips, and the image of my cock sliding between them not even an hour ago takes root, blotting out all logical thought and self-awareness.
When the blunt object smacks into the side of my head, it takes a moment for the ringing in my ear to catch up with my sudden loss of vision. A grunt falls into the air, whisked away on a sea breeze, though I’m not sure who it belongs to.