My hand shook a little, part of me angry and part of me wanting to cry. She left me. She actually left me. Did she fight? Sob? Have to be forced out the door at least? Did he offer her anythi
ng? Was she supposed to be back soon?
Why did she let him convince her to leave?
Because she’s a cunt.
My chin trembled for a moment, almost appreciating the genuine anger in his voice. He’d done this. He’d sent them away.
But even though he did what he thought he had to do to get what he wanted, he still didn’t have any respect for my mother for giving in to him. What kind of parent…
“Where do you go when you’re not here?” I pried, changing the subject. “Are you really going into the city? Or New York? Where?”
Or were you close? Always close.
He was gone a lot, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that he barely stayed here at night. Where the hell was he sleeping?
Maybe he had another woman. Another woman other than my sister, I meant.
He hissed again, and I knew I’d cut him again.
Shit.
But he still didn’t move or speak, just breathed, exhaling slow, almost like a sigh of relief.
“Keep going,” he whispered, sounding breathless and raspy this time.
Heat rolled off him, and I could feel his chest under my hand, the slow, steady breaths almost sounding calm and spent, like he enjoyed it.
He liked being cut?
Or he liked the fear?
Again, I was reminded of the night driving his car. I’d loved how he didn’t get mad at my mistakes and waited for me to do things at my pace. Just like now. He wasn’t mad I cut him.
But maybe there was something in it for him, too. He enjoyed toying with death. Fear made us feel alive.
I finished with his neck and rinsed off the blade. “Bend forward a little,” I told him. “I can’t reach your face.”
He came in as close as he could, pressing between my legs, and tipped his head down at me, our bodies chest to chest. His warmth spread across my face with him only inches away, and I felt self-conscious. “Don’t stare at me.”
I could feel his shitty little smile.
Finding my position, I slid the blade up the side of his face, going with the grain, because my father did it that way, and Damon didn’t say to do it differently. I shaved one cheek and moved the other, grazing my fingers over his skin to feel for any missed spots.
His warm breath hit my forehead, the heat of his body everywhere, and I knew he was looking down at me, but I suddenly didn’t want to tell him to stop, because for a split second, I remembered how good his arms and hands felt. Even if it was a lie, I let myself enjoy the intimacy I’d been starved for. For just a moment.
I ran the blade down his skin, shaving everywhere I felt stubble. His cheeks, his chin, above his top lip, and below his bottom one, and I dragged my fingers over every inch of jawline to feel for anything I’d missed, and after seconds of my hand on him, I was drawn back to the ballroom seven years ago when he let me look at him with my hands.
Nothing had changed.
I set the blade down and brought both hands up to cup his face. “Just need to check,” I told him, but it came out so soft I wasn’t sure he heard me.
I touched him, grazing my fingertips across his cheekbones, down to his jaw, up his neck, and over the hollows of his cheeks. He moved into it, meeting my touch by cocking his head and turning it, giving me complete access as I checked my work, and then his words came back to me from all that time ago.
Want to check the rest of my body?
Absently, my fingers fell down his neck, and I dug my fingers in just a little, because I wanted to touch more, and I hated myself for it.