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

I’m not sure why but his chest undulates at this information. It shifts, and his fists clench as if something, some great emotion, is moving through him. Then, he mutters as if to himself, “She never quits, does she?”

“Quit —”

“What’s this one called?” he asks, tipping his chin at my lips, moving closer and closer.

My lipstick.

I’m wearing one now.

After he made me come and explained all the things to me, he was ready for us to leave. But I told him that I needed a few things before we could go. So I ran inside the house, grabbed the things that I needed, which included this lipstick that I’m wearing, and ran back out to go with him.

Martha did catch me coming and going but when I told her that I was going to a party and she saw the clothes I had on — yes, I’ve changed clothes too; I prettied myself up for him — she let me go without batting an eyelash.

Anyway now, I reply, biting my lip, “Red Addict.”

His eyes flare slightly.

Until I’m not looking for you at school or driving down to your town and knocking at your door like an addict.

That’s what he said to me, so I painted my lips that color, dark maroon-ish red, for him.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

At my question he shudders and his voice turns all thick and growly. “Get over here.”

I don’t.

I keep going. “What about my dress?”

His eyes go to my dress. It’s a maroon dress to match the lipstick. It’s lacy and shows more cleavage than the one I wore on the day I sketched him. And when I took off the magenta parka and revealed it to him, I thought he’d say something. But he hasn’t yet.

“Bronwyn, get the fuck over here.”

I don’t obey him though. I keep walking back until I can’t.

Until I touch the wall.

The wall that is as bare as that office wall I stand against every morning. Except I didn’t get to do that today.

So I stand here.

And with scattered breaths, I say, “I have a dream for you.”

He comes to a jerking halt at this, his features drawing up tight and severe.

“I wrote something for you on that rosy pink paper. A dream I had last night,” I say, fidgeting with the fabric of my dress. “But I didn’t get to give it to you today. And now I don’t want to. I don’t want to give you something I wrote on a piece of paper. When I really want to give you something else, a different kind of dream.”

By the time I’m done, his body has become the tightest that I’ve ever seen it.

All bulging muscles and ridges under his dark sweater.

“A different kind of a dream,” he repeats in an abraded voice.

“Yes,” I whisper, fisting the fabric of my dark dress and sliding the hem up.

His gaze immediately drops to my hands. And latches on.

I watch him beginning to breathe faster, his chest expanding and contracting as I say, “I’ve been wanting to, but I… I was waiting for the right time. I was waiting for you to want it, want me. And it turns out that you do want me. And that you were pretending. You’re so good at that, at keeping all your thoughts and emotions in check. At making me think what you want me to think, even if it’s not true. I hate that, and we’re going to talk about that at some point.”

Things flicker and move in his eyes at my words but I keep going, both with my words and the hem of my dress. “And so I want to give you, show you, something that I made. Something that I make every night. Something that I decorate with sharp thorns and pretty roses. A piece of art. On my body. That I’ve been hiding under my clothes. From everyone. From you.”

He swallows when I pause again, bringing my dress to right there.

Right fucking there.

One micro-inch up and he’ll see it.

He’ll see the things I do to myself. How I write his name.

This is the last barrier, isn’t it?

I’ve broken down all of his and now this is mine. My one little barrier.

That I’ve been wanting to break down for some time now and so it’s a relief.

A euphoria to be able to show him.

And I do.

I pull my hem up and up, and then I take my entire lacy dress off, revealing my body to him. I even take my panties off and toe them away, leaving myself all decorated and naked.

“I don’t want to give you a dream written on a piece of paper when I can give you one written on my body,” I whisper, my eyes bold and shameless, my Rapunzel hair falling down my bare spine in a light brown curtain.