His eyes dart all over my face, his breathing is laboured as if his holding himself back, “Do you have any idea how fucking annoying you are?”
He turns and walks the last few steps into the house.
I follow, and retort, “Not as annoying as you.”
“Do you have a response for everything?” He walks past the kitchen table, his fingers glide over the scratches I put there from the other night.
Not always but I get a kick out of annoying him, and that’s what responding to him does. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
RHYS
Of course, she says yes.
We’ve been playing a dangerous game of ignoring, flirting and then dragging others into messes with one another. But I can’t take it anymore.
Every time he touched her, or she laughed at him, as if he is the funniest person she ever met, I wanted to go over there and drown the fucker. A feeling I have never possessed.
I lie to myself saying it’s because she was sent here for me to protect. Some protecting I’m doing.
She still follows me, and when I look in her room, I see her sketchpad. Since I’m on a roll with annoying her, I swipe it up and skim through it.
“Give that back.”
But because we’re playing a childish game, I react in a childish way, by holding it above my head.
She has a few new ones. Cow skull, some random plant, Esky—because of course she drew the dingo—and a single flower with a date running along the stem. I don’thave to ask what it means. Just as I’m about to put the book back I spot a few more…
“Drawing me, Princess?”
“No, just your tattoos.” She examines her nails, as if they are interesting.
I continue to flick through. She quickly gave up reaching for it. I do have about half a foot on her so her getting it wasn’t going to happen.
“Then what’s this?” There’s a drawing of my lips, my chest and my…
“Teaching myself to draw features.” She simply lies.
I hum, “My cock?”
“Not yours.”
“You’ve seen other pierced penises, Princess?” Turning the book, showing her, her own work.
She blushes and I hope it’s because her answer is a no. But she doesn’t reply.
“So much for always having a reply.”
“Fuck you, Rhys.”
“One-time thing, remember.” I taunt, throwing her words back.
“Sometimes, I really fucking hate you.” She crosses her arms under her chest, and I can’t help when I look down. “Getting a good enough look?”
“Not really.” I toss the book to the side and close the distance between us.
Before she can react, I have her pinned against the wall, both her wrists held above her head by one of my hands. I reach for her the hem of her shirt, but then I realise what I’m doing. I look her over, she isn’t scared; if anything, she’s turned on. I watch as her pupils dilate and her breathing turns into deep, needy breaths.
