Page 31 of The Misfits
Araspy groan rolls up my chest. I’ve washed my hair and pampered my skin with the luxury body wash Dexter handed me when he entered the bathroom to ‘supervise’ my progress, but no matter how hard I’ve fought to control the hazardous conditions between my legs, the situation has worsened.
On Dexter’s advice, I went for a smooth edge, grassy inland cut. Instead of my pubic region replicating an island in the middle of paradise, it resembled an out-of-control jungle in the Bermuda Triangle.
Believing I could make it better, Dexter suggested I trim it into an even strip.
That only made matters ten times worse.
I know what the issue is. I’m so afraid of cutting myself, I’m mowing the edges instead of removing the weeds altogether.
With a shrug, I exit the bathroom. I can’t be expected to perform miracles when I have no clue what I’m doing. My lazy strides come to a stop when the heat of a gaze freezes me in place. Dexter is sitting on the edge of his bed. His jaw is ticking, and his icy blue eyes are arrested on my bare legs. Since the shirt he purchased is two sizes too big, I’ve twisted it into a knot in the middle of my stomach. Match that with knee-high socks and a pair of scant panties, and I’ve got what Ashlee likes to call the naughty- schoolgirl look down pat.
She warned me against it, said men are more violent when they think you’re innocent, but with my sexual experience made up of two kisses and a heavy penis braced on my backside for ten hours straight, I can’t help but display virtue.
Dexter’s eyes come up to mine. “Come here,” he demands with a jerk of his chin.
I go without a thought crossing my mind. I wouldn’t if he were the one clutching a razor blade in his hand. Since the shoe is on the other foot, I want to find out if he sees me as an enemy or an ally. Threat is a great way to discover whose team someone is on, so how about we find out?
Dexter sweats—just not in the way I anticipated. Beads of moisture mottle his dark brows, but I’m certain the sweat is not from fear. Even though he was a stranger weeks ago, I’m confident in my assumption. His eyes divulge many secrets, let alone the rapid rise of a sinfully wicked region of his body.
“Let me see.” Just like he didn’t seek permission before entering the bathroom, he doesn’t wait for approval before slipping my panties to the side. “Hmm.” His throaty purr rumbles through the area he is inspecting. “It’s still not right. We’re not in the seventies. Bush went out long before your mother died.”
I freeze as horror shreds through me.
I still can’t think about her without tears looming in my eyes.
Dexter takes advantage of my frozen state to snatch the razor from my grip and flop me onto the bed. With my emotions fixated on the last time I saw my mother, I don’t protest him sliding my panties down my thighs. His closeness enabled me to sleep an entire night without a nightmare, so who’s to say his touch won’t be just as effective at dispelling negative thoughts?
I’m so busy calming my spiking pulse, I fail to notice Dexter exiting and re-entering the room until the slickness of shaving cream smothers the heated region between my legs. I prop myself on my elbows, equally mortified and in awe. His touch is gentle, but the spasms it sends rocketing up my spine are as violent as the devil.
“I knew I wouldn’t need water,” Dexter murmurs under his breath.
He dips his head to press a toothy kiss to my thigh before scooting closer to the area suddenly throbbing in agony.
“Keep those thoughts in your head, Megan,” he warns. “Or your mouth won’t be the only section of your body feeling my bite today.”
I peer down at him, wondering how he heard my thoughts when he wasn’t looking at me.
Upon feeling the heat of my gawk, he raises his eyes to mine. “You’re wet,” he informs me like it should answer all my questions.
It doesn’t.
Not in the slightest.
But he continues chipping away at my confusion. “And your clit is pulsating with need.”
I’d press my thighs together to ease the ache his raspy tone caused if his thick body wasn’t lodged between them.
A knot low in my belly tightens when he growls, “Once we’ve dealt with this mess, I won’t need to see your cunt to know it’s dripping.”
After snickering at my hanging jaw, he gets back to work. The strokes of his fingers are more probing than his earlier ones. Once my vagina is covered with a generous helping of cream, he flicks open the razor and commences shaving me. He glides the blade over the patch of hair at the top of my pubic region before tracing it down the edge.
“Stay still,” he warns when my legs wobble from the heat of his breath fanning the slippery surface. “I don’t want to nick you...yet.”
Now I’m shaking in fear. The razor-sharp blade is butted against an extremely delicate area of my body. Only the clinically insane wouldn’t panic.
I freeze as morbid fear makes itself known. I was diagnosed as mentally unstable at the age of twelve, so the last emotion I should be sensitive to is panic.
When Dexter feels my balk, he raises his eyes from my hack job to my face. They’re as dark as death, his pupils so wide they’re swamping his entrancing baby blues with pits of black. “Did I cut you?”
