Page 44 of Reaper
And the best thing I could think of was to piss her off enough that she’d hate me, that she’d throw her wine at me, that I wouldn’t have to think about how, when she’s softened just a little, when she’s kind, in her own, vengeful bitch way, I don’t just see in her something like the kindness I received from Vanessa that pulled me back from the brink of self-destruction, but I get this wish that gives me shame… I wish Vanessa had been as strong as her sister.
I see someone with so many of the qualities I loved in Vanessa, and other strengths besides.
My broken heart stirs in ways that feel like shrapnel moving in my chest.
I think I’m free of the problem when she walks down the hallway after throwing the bottle of wine at my head.
Then she screams.
“There’s just one fucking bed.”
I sit up. Drink some more of the wine to steady the burn of nerves in my gut. “What?”
“There’s only one fucking bed in this apartment. This has to be a mistake.” I hear a door slam. Then there’s the sound of another door opening, then slamming shut, then another door opening and slamming shut after that. “Fuck. These other doors — one’s a fucking bathroom and the other’s a laundry room. I don’t want a washer or dryer; I just want a second bedroom.”
“Just take the bed. I’ll sleep out here on the couch.”
There’s the sound of another slamming door, and then she storms out to the living room. Her eyes are wide, bloodshot; her walking’s sloppy; her words slurred; her fists clenched. “Oh? Is that what you’re going to do, Reaper? Make some big ol’ noble sacrifice and deign — yes, I said fucking ‘deign’ — to let me sleep on the bed.”
Maybe drinking an entire bottle of wine on an empty stomach isn’t a great idea.
“The fuck is wrong with that? I’m trying to give you the best option. Besides, the couch is fine for me. It’s comfortable, it’s large, just calm down and go take the bed.”
Even as I say it, I know I’ve made the biggest mistake someone can make when dealing with an angry, drunk, and highly trained law enforcement officer who carries a blood vendetta against them: I told them to calm down.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Calm down.”
Fuck, I did it again. I am not a smart man.
Her eyes narrow into slits, and something dangerous shifts behind them. The air in the room thickens, pulses, like themoment before a bar fight when everyone knows blood is about to hit the floor.
"You know what?" she says as she takes a step closer, and I can smell the wine on her breath mixed with something else — something that reminds me of gunpowder and fury. "I'm done with your noble martyr bullshit."
I set down the wine bottle, my muscles tensing. I know that tone. It was the same voice she'd used right before she'd made Mario piss himself with terror. "Adriana — "
"No." She holds up a finger, swaying slightly. "You don't get to Adriana me right now. You've been playing this game all night, pushing my buttons, saying shit designed to make me hate you, and now you want to what — sleep on the couch like some kind of gentleman? You think I don't see what you're doing?" she says as she moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at her. "You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you're drunk."
Wrong answer. Again.
Her hand shoots out faster than I can track, grabbing a fistful of my shirt and yanking me to my feet. For a second, we are face to face, noses almost touching. She breathes heavily, deeply, angrily, her chest rising and falling with fury, her chest and neck blushing.
She slaps my face with her free hand.
“Eyes up here, not on my tits.”
Somehow, I manage. It doesn’t make me happy. Neither does her slapping me. She’s drunk, she has great tits, and she’s too fucking close for my comfort.
“Go to bed,” I growl.
“You don’t tell me what to do." She stops for a second, swaying. “You think you can just piss me off and then pull this sanctimonious martyr business and I’m just going to accept it?Like I’m not going to know what you’re doing? I know what you’re thinking, Reaper. I know what you want?”
What I want? I doubt it.
Before I can open my mouth, she grabs me by the chin and plants her lips on mine. My world goes dark, the earth moves beneath my feet — which is likely because of the amount of wine in my empty stomach and the blood that rushes to my cock the second our lips meet and not some metaphorical, romance novel bullshit — and I moan into her mouth. My lips opening allows her tongue access, and she takes advantage.
