“Okay.” I jumped up, swaying my hips as I walked. I knew my Rabbit would be watching. I heard him growl low in his throat as I entered the bathroom.
I showered quickly, the blood running to the shower tray, mixed with the makeup that had survived the kill and being taken by Rabbit. When I stepped out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel and combed my long blond hair. My skin was fresh and clean. I slipped a nightgown over my head and stepped out of the bathroom. Rabbit was sitting on the bed, wearing a pair of sleep pants. He held my knife in his hand . . . and there were cuts all over his chest, blood dripping down his fresh clean skin, marring it once again.
“Rabbit.” I lurched forward. He lifted his head. His mouth was closed and his lips were tight. He continued slicing into his chest as he stared at me. “Rabbit . . . what are you doing?” I asked as his blood spilled onto the white linen of the bed.
Rabbit said nothing. Instead he picked up a pen from the table next to the bed. He snapped the pen in his hands, and as the ink spilled from inside, he spread it over his cuts, rubbing the ink into his wounds. I rushed forward and jumped onto the bed. “Rabbit! What are you doing?” My heart beat wildly with worry.
Rabbit hissed as the ink sank in. Using the towel that had been around his waist, he wiped the blood and ink from his tattooed chest. As he pulled the towel away, my mouth dropped open and I gasped. “Rabbit . . .” I whispered. “Sick Fux.” My hand reached out and hovered over the words carved on his chest—words, for once, I recognized easily. Drops of blood sprouted from the letters. Without thinking, I ran my fingers through the warm liquid.
Rabbit stopped breathing as I did so. His pupils grew wide as his eyes tracked my fingertips. I froze, fingers in midair, as his nostrils flared and his breathing began to quicken. I glanced down and saw him hardening under his sleep pants.
He liked his blood on my fingers.
Holding his attention, I rubbed my fingertips together, feeling his blood soak them. He groaned. As my fingers rubbed together, more blood escaped, ran down the side of my hand and onto my wrist. I brought my hand to my mouth and licked at the falling drop.
Rabbit hissed. My eyes snapped to his. Rabbit’s neck was taut. His hands were fisted on the comforter. Breathless, I took another drop and circled it around my lips. His chest rose and fell. Leaning forward, I stayed just an inch from his face and licked my lips. My eyes fluttered closed. I now held a part of Rabbit in my mouth. I was taking his blood, his life force, into my soul.
I felt a sharp object run down my face and a hand wrap around my neck. Smiling, my eyes rolled open. Rabbit was before me, his hard chest smeared with blood and ink. He tilted his head as his eyes locked on to my neck . . . on to my pounding pulse.
“Little Dolly,” he said, voice so low I felt it all the way down to my bones. The tip of his thimble ran over my vein and traced across the front of my throat. My breasts ached as the cold metal touched my my skin. “So easily split open,” he whispered. His tongue licked around the shell of my ear.
“I can see your veins, little Dolly. I can see how blue they are against your pale skin. I can see your pulse pounding, throbbing in your neck.” He breathed in the scent from my freshly washed skin. “It’s calling my name.” He smiled against my neck. “It’s telling me to taste you as you have tasted me.”
“Yes,” I whispered and arched into his body. I felt the heat from his skin as soon as we made contact.
His thimble dug into the side of my throat. His eyes narrowed as he studied my skin. “You’re tempting me, darlin’,” he drawled, as his nose gently followed the path of the thimble. His tongue lapped at my skin. I moaned at the feel of having him so close . . . wanting my blood.
Blood he wanted to taste.
“I have always wanted your blood in my mouth, running down my throat.” He pressed a soft kiss on my pulse. I shivered. “You held me mesmerized from the first moment I met you. Not by your smile, not by your eyes, but by your throat and your veins. By your pulse and the paleness of your skin. My little Dolly. My painted Alice from Wonderland.”
“Rabbit,” I said hoarsely, my back arching as his other hand wrapped around my throat and began to squeeze.