Page 39 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Drink.Please,” I add softly, trying to take some of the worried heat out of my tone.
“Jus’ leave me’lone,” he grumbles, fisting his hands and tugging the blanket over his face, losing himself back in his overheated cocoon.
“My lovely crow, I know you’re tired, and I do not wish to disturb you, but you must drink something. It’s either this, or I will force water down your throat.”
My lashes flutter as vibrant flashes ofwhat could bepulsate in my mind.
My fingers between his lips, feeling the sharp scrape of teeth as I force my entry. He bites down, locking his jaw, but I am already inside. The damp warmth of his tongue caresses my fingertips, and he recoils against my flavor.
For a moment, just a single moment, I brush the pad of my index finger over the sandpaper texture of the muscle, feeling one of the most intimate parts of him. The very muscle that helps form some of the most beautiful words I have had the pleasure of hearing.
It’s soft and pliant as if he is purposely trying to be as still as he can—the calm before the storm.
My knuckles knock against the back of his teeth—and that is his trigger.
He chomps down, locking the soft flesh of my middle finger between those gorgeous white teeth, strong and uncontrolled. I hiss, unable—unwilling—to hide my reaction. I want him to see what he does to me.
Brooklyn grinds them together, mauling my flesh, digging in deeper. Mangling and violating.
My skin rips and shreds, dissolving between his abuse and flooding his mouth with the taste of my blood—the best possible outcome.
He recoils as metallic blood flows into his mouth, over each taste bud, magnified ten times over.
I feel the moment his body recoils, trying to get as far away from me as possible. My left hand grips his nape, hair wrapped around each digit, skin soft and malleable beneath my palm.
I force him up, chest grazing my own as I flex my fingers inside his mouth, index finger pushing upwards, my middle and ring forcing his jaw down, prying bone from bone.
He fights the intrusion—never stops fighting, and it’sglorious.
Warmth—deep satiating warmth—floods my stomach and rolls outward. I search for Brooklyn’s eyes, but he refuses to give them to me. His lids are pinched tight, the thin skin wrinkled and creased, lashes pressed against cheeks.
Another time, then.
Confident he will stay where I have put him, I release his neck to reach for the glass of water. Condensation licks across the crystal, dampening my hand. I press the smooth edge to his bottom lip, prompting a drink.
I watch that muscle in his jaw jump, ticking with fervent indignation. I press harder.
His head rocks with the smallest of nods, and if he would only open those lovely eyes, he’d see the smile illuminating my face. But, alas, happiness need not always be shared. But felt.
I don’t bother removing my fingers from inside his mouth. Instead, I hook them at the corner, baring his molars.
Some water dribbles out, flowing over my hand and dripping onto the blanket bunched around his legs. His cheeks burn scarlet with embarrassment, and my pride licks hotter.
His throat bobs with every swallow until I’m tipping the glass back, giving him the last few drops.
Once it’s empty, I reach over and place it back on the stand with a softclink.Brooklyn’s eyes follow the sound from behind closed lids before he settles back to where I’m at, directly in front of him.
With pained regret, I pull my fingers from his mouth, already missing the damp, comforting warmth he provided. Brooklyn’s jaw snaps closed, only for him to open it just as quickly, attempting to work out the ache of being pried open for so long.
My throat aches as I part my own to say with a reference I feel in the marrow of my bones, “That was lovely.”
“’bias?”
Brooklyn’s beautiful voice mumbling my name evaporates the vision that splayed right before me, so vibrant and palpable, I can still smell his saliva on my fingers.
I glance down at my hand curled around the mug, chest filling with regret.
“I’ll drink the tea,” he tells me breathily. Tiredly.
