“Preferably.”
I snort. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re so out there that it pisses me the fuck off.” In a flash, his fingers squeeze my jaw.
I can see the darkness creeping into his features. The air shifts with his earnest stare, and his not-so-subtle plan of laying me on his lap and extracting his punishments from my skin.
But we’re not done talking.
“You can always start your own social media and stalk me,” I suggest. “That way you’ll know everyone I’m interacting with.”
“Not in this lifetime.” His thumb strokes my chin, back and forth, with heightening intensity.
“Worth a try.” I pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my hand and wipe at the dry blood. “Why do you fight?”
“I have too much excess energy that I can only purge through inflicting violence and pain.”
A craving.
An impulse.
Part of who he is.
But why is he the way he is?
Instead of asking that, I go for, “What happens if you don’t purge it?”
“Nothing good comes from pent-up pressure.” His lips thin in a line. “If you’re considering options to change who I am, save it.”
“I don’t want to change you.”I want to understand you.
The last words get stuck in my throat before I can relay them and I stroke my finger over the cut on his lip. “Does it hurt?”
He makes an affirmative noise, his eyes getting lost in mine as his thumb continues the maddening back and forth on my chin.
Back and forth.
“Really?” I start to pull my hand away.
Creighton grabs it and places it back on his face. “You can continue.”
I grin. “Are you sure it hurts or do you just want me to touch you?”
“The second.”
“Wow. You’ve come a long way from when you refused to let me touch you.”
“I don’t like giving up control,” he admits in a low voice that gets carried by the wind.
“It’s in good hands with me.”
“Doubt it.”
“Why?”
“You’re a brat.”
“I can be good, too.” An idea springs to mind and I perk up. “What if I prove it?”