These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

“What does that —”

“Where do I put them?” he rasps, speaking over me.

“What?”

“Where do I put my hands?” He licks his lips, flicking his eyes over my arched body. “On your body.”

It jerks, my body. At his unexpected question.

At his crazy, crazy question.

“You’re asking me about…” My breaths hitch and scatter. “About my d-dreams?”

“Tell me.”

Oh God.

God.

He really is.

He really is asking me and I don’t know what to do.

I wasn’t expecting this.

Even though I was the one pushing him and provoking him, I wasn’t expecting him to play along. I wasn’t expecting him to actually put his hands on me.

Or rather around me.

His hands are on the dogwood but still it feels like he’s touching me instead of the tree I’m stuck to.

It still feels like his hand up above my head is actually in my hair, fisting the strands, and the one by my side is really gripping my waist. My tiny, fragile waist.

And I think that’s why everything seems hazy.

The very air seems drugged and my mouth opens on its own and spills out things I never imagined saying. “Uh, the other day I… I dreamed about you in your office. When you… When I asked if I could draw you and you came up to me and you put your hand here. On my arm.”

I tilt my head and hitch my right shoulder to show him. To show which arm and he dutifully takes notice of it. He shifts his gaze away from my face and glances over to where I’ve pointed him before asking, “And then what?”

I swallow and clutch my skirt. “You tell me to stop talking and try to push me out of the door. But I…”

“But you don’t go,” he rasps.

“No.”

“And you don’t stop talking either.”

“I don’t. So you get fed up and you put your hand on my… n-neck,” I whisper.

His eyes darken — I see it happen — before he lowers them and glances at my throat. “But my hand is too big. For your neck.”

I swallow again. “It is.”

Looking up, he says, “So I span it then. Your throat. I grab hold of it and I wrap my large fingers around your little swan neck, don’t I?”

I jerk out a nod. “Yes.”

“And then, I probably squeeze it too, yeah?” he says roughly, his jaw ticking. “I probably tighten my fingers around that little swan neck of yours until I feel your pulse leaping under my palm. Skittering. Throbbing.”

“Why would you do that?”

He comes closer then.

Or rather, he hangs closer.

From the corner of my eye, I see his biceps bulging as he pushes against the tree and inches forward, toward me. “To warn you.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that you’re pushing it now,” he almost bites out. “You’re really fucking pushing it. You’re right at the edge and so you should listen to me. You should heed my fucking fingers grabbing your fragile neck and you should shut the fuck up, Bronwyn.”

“But I…” I shake my head slightly. “I don’t think I listen even then.”

His cheekbones have a flush on them now and I don’t think it’s the weather. I think it’s me.

I’m doing that to him.

I’m coloring his skin like the artist I am and God, it’s amazing.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. I was afraid that you wouldn’t listen. Despite what’s written in your file. Despite what you told me. That you’re a good girl. That you keep your head down and you listen. But you don’t, do you? You’re trouble.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I am. I’m trouble. I’m bad. But only for you.”

“Only for me.”

I crane my neck up even more at his voice then.

I arch my body in a tighter bow.

As if I’m seeking his guidance. As if I’m asking him to show me the way. “So what now?”

He takes in my tight-as-a-bowstring posture for a second before he says, “So now I’ve got no choice but to take drastic measures.”

“Like what?”

The bulge of his biceps expands even more as he rasps, “I’ll have to put my hands somewhere else now, won’t I?”

“Where?”

His cheeks flush even more and his eyes now hold a deeper shade of blue. “I’m going to have to put my hands where my fingers can not only grab you but they can really fucking dig in and make you shake. Where my hand can make you jiggle and bounce and fucking dance. Tell me where that place is, Bronwyn. On your body.”

I know.

I know where that place is.

I’m rubbing that place against the tree right now. I’m arching it up, almost bouncing it for him.

“My a-ass.”

Satisfaction washes over his features, approval, and I bloom under it like a flower.

A sick, obsessed flower.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Your ass. And of course my hands are too big for your tight little ass too. So big that I can grab each globe in one hand and worry and grope that perky, bratty thing until it turns all pink. Can’t I?”