Skin (Flesh 2)

“No.” Her stomach rumbled loudly. “I’m hungry.”

“I heard.”

“Offering me your c**k as a source of sustenance would be a bad idea.” The top corner of her upper lip rose to expose her teeth, like he needed the hint.

“Guess it would.” He grinned.

“Get off me, Nick.”

“In a minute.”

“Nick.”

“Come on. Can’t you kiss me just once?”

She swallowed and studied the ceiling above him. “No.”

“Why not? One little kiss wouldn’t kill you.”

“Don’t.”

“Roslyn. Just one.”

“Oh, for f**k’s sake.” Her face screwed up tight, eyes thunderous. “Really, we’re back to this? And you say I’m immature.”

She was right. It was a waste of time. Who was he kidding?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No problem,” she said, voice bored. “I’m almost getting used to you sexually harassing me. Now, get off.”

He shook his head and grinned some more with relish. This would be fun. “No, not for that …”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Yum,” the ass**le enthused, shoving another pikelet into his mouth. This one was loaded down with sugar and lemon juice, just how she liked them. Of course, he knew this because he’d been reading her diary, the abysmal shithead.

They were actually pretty good. The man could cook. But it would take a hell of a lot more than showing style with batter and toppings to make her smile.

Roslyn sat on the big lounge opposite him, concentrating on the stunning view out the front. Hectares of pristine bushland and beautiful mountains rising in the distance. An awesome view, much more calming than watching the ass**le eat. Her fingers tightened around her lukewarm mug of coffee in one hand, her reading glasses in the other. Their return along with the rest of her handbag did little to abate her pissy mood.

“Ros, have some more.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” She sat with her legs curled up beneath her and a hand discreetly covering the spot where her neck met her torso. Just above her collarbone.

“It’s not that bad,” the ass**le said around a mouthful of food. His eyes lingered on her hand.

“Eat with your mouth shut, please.”

The ass**le grinned. With his mouth shut. That smile was pure pig—shelve him in 636.4—animal husbandry, swine. She’d tell him she hated him, but what was the point?

Nick downed the last of his coffee and licked his lips. “I’ve never bitten anyone before. It was kinda fun.”

“I hate you.”

“I wish I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that.” He leant forward and got busy topping up another pikelet with honey. “Actually, I don’t. What would be the point? Money’s useless these days.”

She said nothing. She had nothing to say.

“So, what do you want to do today?” he asked.

“With you? Nothing. How are they doing at the school?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Did you talk to them?”

“No. Just snuck in and grabbed your stuff,” he said.

“Did you see any of them, up at the school?”

“Ros, I was trying to avoid them.”

“But you must have noticed if they were around. How were they going?”

“Same as usual,” he said, his eyes all over the task to hand. No way could the surface area of the pikelet handle that amount of honey. What a disaster waiting to happen. “They were arguing about who ate the last tin of canned chicken or something. You need to eat more. Go on, have another.”

He continued to stare at his well-laden pikelet. Honey dripped onto the side of his hand and he licked it up. Tongue lapping. Like a dog. Her belly did something odd. Because he revolted her. Not because there could be anything weirdly appealing about what he was doing with the sugary-sweet condiment coating his skin. The sure, strong swipes of his tongue were repugnant.

She shifted on the lounge, trying to get comfortable. No position worked. Her sex was still swollen and sensitive from earlier. Everything felt uncomfortable and in need of relief. Apart from a quick pee break, he didn’t seem to be interested in letting her out of his sight. Bastard. Five minutes of privacy was all it would take and he knew it.

She repositioned her arms so the overly obvious points of her ni**les were concealed from prying eyes. Even her br**sts felt heavy, awkward. Why was he still licking his damn hand?

“You’re staring,” he mumbled.

“I think you missed a spot.”

“I like sweet things.” He winked.

“Ooh, good one.”

He tipped his chin at her and the hand still sitting against her neck. “Why are you covering it up? I’m the only one here and I know all about it.”

Jerk. Though he did have a point. Just the same, Roslyn rather pointedly scratched the side of her neck with her middle finger.

“Nice.” He blew her a kiss over the top of his pikelet.

She crossed her arms over her chest, still aware of her boobs screaming look at me!, and sank down in the chair. Maybe the neck of her sweater would do some damage control, bite-wise. It looked like a Rottweiler had been at her. Nice red teeth marks imprinted in her neck, with a bruise blossoming beneath.

“I know about your perky ni**les too,” he said, smiling lecherously. “I thought we could read some more of your diary later.”

Not likely. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe. I noticed you didn’t write as much after the plague hit.”

Gently, she massaged the tender spot on her neck, wishing she could erase it. It and him. “There wasn’t much to say. Life sucked.”

“There was a bit about that wanker bothering you.”

She studied the view, quietly squirming inside. “That’s none of your business. Do you have any concept of what a massive invasion of my privacy your reading my diary is?”

He puffed out his lips and blew hot air her way. “Yeah, I do. But if you were better at opening up and talking about yourself I wouldn’t have to, would I? So really, it’s all your own fault.”

How badly did she want to beat him with a stick? Instead she crossed her legs and swung her foot, making the chain jiggle and sing. Because she knew it bugged him, and scowling got old after four days. Four. Long. Days.

Shit. He really would give her wrinkles.