Page 32 of No, You Hang Up

Even before I open my eyes, I’m sure he’s gone. Huxley exists at night, not during the day. In some ways, he’s like some creature of myth, or horrific folklore. If he were to exist in the daytime, then?—

“You know, little bunny, your friends sure are needy.”

Then he’d be just as annoying as any other mere mortal.

Opening my eyes, I sigh and stare up at my ceiling, where the lights are off and the morning light is creeping through the curtains over my window. I stretch my legs, toes flexing, before rolling over to face the other side of my bed.

There he is. All perfect, flawless skin and an athletic torso that isn’t quite muscular enough to be considered bulky. He’s leaning against the wall over my bed, with the blankets pooled around his hips and my spare pillow bracing his lower back. He looks absurdly comfortable, but almost immediately my eyes fall to his hand, which is holding my phone.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, dragging the blankets up over my shoulders. “Why the hell are you looking at my messages?”

“Get a passcode,” he replies without looking at me. “Seriously, you’re asking for your shit to get stolen without a passcode or face ID. What if you wanted to use tap to pay? What if you get stuck without your debit card, or you lose your phone to some criminal on the street?”

“You know, I’m starting to think they can creep in off the street if you let them.” At my thinly veiled insult, Hux’s eyes travel across the bed until he’s looking at me with one brow raised.

“I’m a serial killer.”

“I got that, thanks.”

“You sure are bold with me.”

“How many murders does it take to become a serial killer, anyway?” I bury my face in my pillow and sigh, not wanting to get up. My body is sore, both inside and out, and all I want to do is sleep and maybe shower. Or, I suppose, order food. Donuts would be nice.

Huxley doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he scrolls through a few more messages before setting my phone on my nightstand. As I peek up at him from the pillow, I’m able to watch as he settles onto his side, facing me, and reaches out to shove my hair back from my face.

“You’re being a brat,” he informs me almost sweetly. “It’s cuter in the dark.”

“Yeah, so’s your face.”

That gets another roll of his eyes, but I really can’t help my small grin at the look. Something in me loves to irritate him and loves to see the almost immature reactions he gives.

It’s hard to be afraid of him when he’s like this. It’s hard to remember that he’s a murderer. Or that he drugged me, then came back and threatened to cut out my tongue.

But it’s easy to be concerned for myself and just how fucked up I really might be when I can look at him like this and not immediately go for a butcher knife or try to call the cops.

Huxley reaches out suddenly, dragging me to him until my body is flush to his. It’s apparent pretty quickly that he’s not wearing anything, and belatedly I remember him finally stripping out of his jeans late last night while I tried to catch my breath.

He’s so warm, so solid against me that I let myself sink against him, just for now. I tell myself I’ll stop. I tell myself that it’s just for a few more seconds.

But seconds become minutes, and before I know it, I’m drifting off against his shoulder while remembering every single place he touched and bit me.

I bet I’m marked up all over.

That should bother me, too. Knowing I’ve let a serial killer leave his marks all over me, however he sees fit. It makes me wonder if he was right last night. If I really would’ve let him—begged him—to cut his initials into my inner thigh.

Thinking about it makes me squirm against him, and he rests his chin on my head with a sigh. “Stop thinking so hard, Kai,” Huxley murmurs. “You’re ruining it.”

“You ruined it when you showed up.” At least my replies are on point, even if my brain isn’t working at full capacity. Huxley chuckles at my words, though, not seeming particularly offended.

“I’m going to kiss you now, and if you have the urge to bite, I’d prefer you didn’t. I have to work in a few hours, and I like you sweet instead of…you know. How you normally are.”

Unfortunately, I don’t get the chance to make some argument about how I’m never that sweet. Or that I’ll be the one deciding if I want to get bite-y or not. I can’t, when he’s so gentle as he pushes me onto my back until my shoulder blades sink into the mattress. My eyes open as he leans over me, and his face is right there, so close and so sweet, then he brushes his lips to mine and braces himself up on one hand over me.

I expect the kiss to turn into something more. I expect his hand to roam over my body, to eventually delve between my thighs to finger me open so he can fuck me once more. But…he doesn’t do any of that. Huxley just kisses me. Just moves his lips against mine, and flicks his tongue out to taste and to tease. Unintentionally, I melt into it.

And find myselfcravingit.

Enjoying his kisses is really too easy. Too damn easy and natural. I want to hate him, to hate this. I want to tell him that he sucks at something, instead of being nearly a saint in all things sex-related.

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