Page 41 of Filthy Little Fix
"What the fuck did you tell my siblings?" I growl, crossing the distance between us in a few long strides. He's sitting at the desk, hunched over his computer, but I don't care about his work. I care about what he did to me. "What did you say to them to make them think you're a victim? That you're...depressed?"
He turns his face, his body unmoving. The bruises on his jaw and cheek have deepened to a nauseating shade of purple, but what I notice now is the swelling. His entire left side is swollen, distorting his once-angular features. He looks like he lost a fight with a beehive.
"What are you talking about?" he says, his voice slurred.
I slam my hands on the table, leaning over him. "You're a fucking maniac! You get off on being humiliated! And what about the fucking fern, huh? Agirlfriend? You, who bleeds and moans for me, who begs me to hurt you, are worried about having your little girlfriend tending to a fucking houseplant?"
His face, usually so expressive in its perversion, only twists into a pained frown. "Mister—I don't understand," he says, moving his jaw in a strange, locked way. "Are you mad because I have a plant?"
I look at his jaw again, at the grotesque swelling. He can barely speak properly.
"What the fuck is wrong with your face?"
He doesn't flinch. He just gives a small smile. "It's just a souvenir. You gave it to me."
"You're talking like you have a golf ball in your mouth. Let me see."
He doesn't pull away when I grab his chin with force and press my thumb against his lower lip. I've never touched him with such care—this swelling makes him look even more fragile, and he obeys the pressure of my touch, opening his mouth and looking at me with that curious, obscene fervor sparking in his eyes. I ignore it, carefully pulling his lip away to see what's going on.
In the back of his dental arch, it's pretty obvious. I don't need to search. One of his molars is practically split open, with the swollen, reddish pulp underneath. It's clearly inflamed and mirrored in the surrounding gum, and it's disgusting, grotesque. This isn't fromonecareless day. It's a miracle he can articulate at all.
I let go of him. He closes his mouth, but his teeth don't touch—of course not, it must hurt like hell.
"What the fuck is that?" I say, tense.
"A molar," he replies as if it's simple, as if it's nothing. "The nerve is exposed."
The image of the other night flashes through my mind. The blood. The way his mouth was a mix of spit and red. I didn't think about it at the time—I figured it was just a cut, a small wound on his lips. Not... this. Not a broken tooth.
"You were spitting blood all over my cock—why the hell didn't you say anything?" I growl, my voice filled with self-directed disgust. He's not taking it seriously. He's satisfied.
"I had my mouth busy, mister… and it's a mark of your touch. I like it."
Fuck, this is different. The idea of him walking around with a broken tooth, a living testament to my brutality, makes me want to vomit. It's grotesque. It's one thing for him to say he gets off on a controlled punch, it's another to have this, something I can't control.
I don't know where this thought is taking me. It's strange territory that I'm even justifying his sick pleasure.
"You're fucking crazy. Do you think about this while you eat? That you have a piece of me in your mouth?" I say with disgust.
"No," he says hoarsely, and my body freezes, bracing for a new wave of depravity. "But it's a reminder of what you do to me." He pauses, staring at my groin for a split second. "I thought you would press it, you know. My molar. I fantasized about it."
He pronounces each word as if he's genuinely getting turned on at the thought of someone pressing an inflamed tooth. It makes me sick.
"I don't like hurting you, you sick fuck."
"You don't?" he whispers. The sound sends a shiver down my arms. "It didn't seem like it. You fucked my mouth until I gagged. Want to do it again?"
A wave of pure nausea hits me. The idea of that sound… that wet, nauseating sound of sucking and swallowing…
"This is ridiculous," I say, trying to sink the heat that appears against my will.Damn it,I tell myself I don't take pleasure in hurting him, but his reactions stir something in me far more than they should. And Iknowhe would love for me to do it again. "You need a dentist."
I retreat to snatch up my phone. The most reliable, discreet dentist we can find—I emphasize it's urgent as Nyx continues to gaze at me, captivated and expectant. He's a disaster, but for some reason, I can't quite grasp why I find him beautiful, in a messed-up way.
"Don't move," I order. "Don't do anything but wait for the dentist. Understood?"
He nods, with that horrible reverence.
I lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair. The idea of him thinking about our encounter while chewing is mental poison.
