Chapter 17 Lucky Bedsheets

— 17 —

LUCKY BEDSHEETS

Oz

I DREAM IN black and white. My mind replays the day like one of those old western films—in grayscale moving images behind a filter of flickering dust and scratches. From afar, I watch myself riding my motorcycle down the highway. The entire world around me is dull in the monochrome gray.

And then Gemma appears, standing alone in the center of the open desert landscape.

I see her from far away and from high above her with a bird's-eye view. Abruptly, my perspective changes—like a vulture diving toward its next meal, I swoop low, dropping until she's central in the frame of my mind's eye. A slow zoom gradually brings me closer, closer… and then it quickens, shooting me toward her with haste.

I stop directly in front of her.

She's just this beautiful thing, standing still, all alone.

Dark speckles in the film-like dream burst in clusters all around her hair, appearing as black splotches that erupt into spatters of pink, which color her hair. They continue to appear and burst, landing as a light shade of pastel pink that slowly darkens.

She closes her eyes, then slowly tilts her chin toward the gray sky. She gently lays her hand over her throat, encircles her neck, gradually slides her hand up as the blasts of color appear more powerfully and with more frequency. The eruptions of color begin to stutter the movie in my mind, morphing her movements from a smoothly captured film into a series of still images punctuated by each explosion. Frame by frame, her hand inches up, then finally stops at the cut beneath her jaw.

And then, she's motionless—a single still image frozen in time.

She's still gray.

The whole world is still gray.

But her hair is vibrant pink.

Everything remains still except for the color—it moves through her hair in all directions. Dark and light shades of pink swirl and slip through her strands.

Twist and twirl.

Dance and drip.

I'm mesmerized by the moving colors.

I'm drawn into a trance.

I remain there for hours of peaceful, deep sleep.

Then, all at once, the world changes.

Gemma parts her lips.

She gasps.

Her eyes snap open.

Red seeps from the crown of her head, spilling down, and soaking her hair. Though the pink moved softly, the red is harsh. It's a thick, viscous substance that clings to and stains all it touches.

It quickly coats her hair, but it doesn't stop there.

It pours down her body, spilling onto the desert sand beneath her feet… and then it's falling from above, raining over everything from a cloudless, gray sky.

Her head levels, and her eyes find mine.

She grins.

Her voice echoes all around me as she says, "Cut me, Oz. Make me bleed. I mixed the color just for you."

With a jarring tug, I'm dragged back, zooming out and away from her as quickly as I might drive away on my motorcycle. The whole world is turning red—a captivating shade of raspberry from the meld of pink in her hair tinting the blood. When I'm so far away that she's merely a spec on the horizon, I'm lifted straight up, sucked into the sky, and drawn back to reality.

I drag in a sharp breath as I awaken in the dark.

I blink through the haze, trying to get a grasp on where I am.

I'm on my back on the twin mattress, blocking my bedroom door. The room is dark, and there's no light filtering through the window, though there is a glow from the bathroom as the light is still on. We lose power at 4:00 A.M., so it must be sometime before that.

The covers are bunched around my legs, leaving one covered and the other exposed, and I'm wearing only my black boxer briefs. One arm is raised, resting on the pillow above my head. The other is beneath the sheet, and my fist is closed, clutching… something.

Not my hard cock, which is as thick as a goddamn redwood.

It's my butterfly knife. I remember thinking I should have it close at hand before I fell asleep. I lift it out from beneath the sheets and find that it's been flipped open, the blade pointing outward, ready for action rather than being neatly and safely shut in between the handles—though I know it was closed when I fell asleep.

I flip it shut.

It clicks as it closes—a sound that would normally be insignificant, though it echoes in this quiet room in the dead of night.

I hold still, wait, and listen to see if it woke Gemma.

At first, I'm met with silence, but then I hear her snore. It's light, though, barely audible. I probably wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't been wide awake and straining my ears.

The sound of it verges on cute.

Fucking adorable, actually.

Everything she says and does is so fuckably charming.

I bet the shade of her fresh blood is adorable, too.

I'd seen her fresh blood when she cut herself at the Crevice—I'd touched it, pushed it back inside her mouth, and rubbed it across her tongue. But I didn't really have the time to look at it and examine the color. I know what it looks like dried and stuck to her skin; I just wish I could remember the shade of it while it dripped down her neck… I wonder if it's the same blend of red and pink I saw in my dream.

Vibrant raspberry pink.

I have to know. I need to see it.

A torturous, throbbing need pulses through my veins, pumping this urge through every inch of my body. The need to see her blood pools low in my stomach, where it rolls, tumbling a mixture of arousal and shame that twists together into a feeling of forbidden filth. The immoral sense of wrongness heightens my senses, deepens my desire, and it feels so fucking good.

I'm too hard and too desperate to be alone with her in a dark room. I can't ignore the way her mere presence tugs at the thread of my obsession, drawing me toward the compulsion to make her bleed.

I cling to the closed knife—an extension of my hand—as I shove at the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs. I free my cock, marveling at the rise of it as I shimmy the underwear down my legs, then kick them off. I don't think I've ever seen my dick this thick and long, but it can't stay this way.

Relief is a necessity at this point.

I get up and walk to the bathroom. I push the door open wider until the glow shines across the back of her thigh and over the curve of her ass cheek, which peeks out from beneath the underwear that's just a little too small for her.

Then, I move to the foot of the bed.

Stark naked, I stand and watch her sleep.

She's sprawled sideways across the center, face down, and sound asleep on top of the covers.

With a smooth trick, I flip open the knife.

I should be searching my mind for good sense, but the longer I look at her, the stronger the sick urge becomes… and that urge was pretty strong to begin with. My free hand naturally floats to my cock, and I enjoy a few light, lazy strokes as I watch her sleeping atop the tangled comforter and bedsheets beneath her.

Lucky bedsheets.

A shudder drives anticipatory pleasure up my spine.

I carefully place one knee on the foot of the bed, and then I pause, waiting to see if she feels my presence.

She doesn't stir.

I bring my other leg onto the mattress and slowly inch closer. My pulse quickens the closer I get. When I stop, I'm kneeling so close against her body that I know I'm pushing my luck. I feel her hip against my left knee, and my right is near her breast.

Her arms are raised, bent to frame her head. Her hair cascades down her back, and hides her pretty face, which is turned away from me. I hook my finger beneath a strand and lift it from her cheek. I can't stop myself from stroking her hair, which is unbelievably soft now that it's clean. I don't want to wake her, but I'll risk it to enjoy this bit of softness from a girl who's mostly sharp edges and harsh lines.

I pet her for more than a minute, and she doesn't stir—she's a heavy sleeper. I wonder if I can draw her blood and have a moment to paint her with it before she wakes up.

Shit.

I have to stop stroking her hair so I can stroke myself.

My cock juts high and proud over her backside. It's part of the view as I look down at her, as I study her curves, as I grow more and more desperate to see her bleed. I give myself one more stroke, stifling a groan before I force my hand away. I reach down, gently sweep my finger beneath the hem of her T-shirt and lift it up to clear her perfectly rounded ass and lower back.

I expect to see smooth skin like the front of her, but I quickly spot a scar. It's only a few inches from her spine, at least an inch long, and… it's not the only one. There are several scars on her lower back, and I suspect I'd find more if I could lift her shirt higher. I suppose anything could have made these scars, but they look like puncture wounds—like she was literally stabbed in the back.

Seeing this should be enough to make me stop.

It should , but it doesn't .

If anything, it makes me wildly possessive.

It infuriates me.

Someone else hurt her. Someone touched her, caused her pain, made her bleed … Someone else knows the color of her blood and didn't have the decency to preserve it. Whoever gave her these scars wanted her dead.

They didn't know what they had.

They didn't know that she's mine.

Now that I've seen her scars, a more powerful sense of shame swirls in my stomach, a heavy sinking feeling of guilt over this insatiable lust to make her bleed. It should turn me off; it should be the cold shower I need to bring back my self-control. Instead, it makes me harder, thicker, even needier with the thrill of dropping into darkness.

I move gently, but quickly, straddling her body and hovering over the backs of her thighs. I stay high on my knees, keep them wide, and pause to see if she wakes up…

She doesn't.

Damn, this woman could sleep through a hurricane.

Smoothly, I bend over her. I place my hand gripping the knife on the mattress above her head. The fingers on my free hand curl around her hair near the side of her neck, gather it softly, and drag it back so I can see her face.

She's gorgeous.

Her features are so soft, so pink, so sweet.

Her plump lips are slightly parted, and everything about her expression is loose, relaxed, and calm.

I drop lower, bring my nose close to her neck—as close as I can without touching her—and breathe deeply to draw in her scent.

Goddamn.

I can smell my soap on her skin.

I inhale again to savor a heady mixture of fresh, scentless soap mingling with her sweetness.

Watermelon…

She smells sweet, like sugar and melon.

She's a fucking delicacy in our resource-limited world.

I could cut her here, press the tip of the knife into the crook of her neck…

Except, I know that's too dangerous. Any strong reaction from her would cause me to slip and seriously injure her. That's not what I want.

So where do I slice my sweet little watermelon?

I take one last sniff of her tender neck before I climb off her, shifting to kneel at the side of her that's closer to the headboard. I can watch her pretty face now as I slip down along her body, stopping when my head is near her ass. I prop myself on my side as my eyes trace the back of her thigh.

Perfect.

I lift the knife above her exposed skin, turning it in my hand and holding it like a paintbrush. My hand is steady as I hover the tip above the crease where her cheek meets her thigh. I only slice through air as I draw an imaginary wavy line from that spot to the back of her knee, trying to decide where to make a small cut.

I was thinking somewhere between the knee and hip—she's got plenty of thick, luscious flesh to protect her veins and arteries. Yet my gaze keeps tracking upward, drawn to the tempting bulge of flesh that peeks out beneath the hem of her panties.

If I wasn't so worried about her moving, I'd slice them off first, maybe keep them for myself. I know she put them on fresh from the shower, but I'm sure the scent of her pussy already clings to the fabric. And she must have left the dirty pair she wore all day in the bathroom…

Fuck.

My entire body tenses, knowing there's a delicate piece of fabric somewhere close that holds all of Gemma's filthiest secrets. I can't help but believe she must have had a moment today where she felt some sense of attraction to me, even just a brief flash of something that was gone in less than a second. Maybe—just maybe—that moment made her damp between the legs.

She held so much rage for me. She fought me so fucking hard. She bared her hatred for me with reckless abandonment.

Hatred that raw requires passion, and passion drives desire.

I wanna know the scent of her desire as much as I wanna see her blood. I wanna bury my face in her pussy, know the scent of her arousal, commit it to memory until I know with a single inhale when she's needy.

I wanna be the only man who will satisfy that need.

I wanna claim her, know her intimately—inside and out.

I need her to want me as madly as I want her.

And I want her so fucking madly…

My body shudders in the fight to control myself.

I can't control this anymore.

I need this… I need it now .

I lower the knife and press the tip into soft flesh.

It's a small, shallow puncture—a little more than a pinprick in her cheek where it peeks out from the bottom of her panties.

She feels the pain of it all the same, and it startles her awake. She makes an involuntary sound, a high-pitched whimper of surprise and protest. Her head sharply rises from the mattress but drops again immediately with the heaviness of sleep. She barely moves, her tired limbs betraying her as she shifts a little, whimpering as she fights sleep.

Poor thing is exhausted.

How many times has she been triggered in the last twenty-four hours?

I should stop and let her sleep…

I lift my right leg over her left and straddle her calf, pinning her leg to the mattress with my weight as I let my thick shaft press down on her muscle. I groan at the pressure, rock my hips a few times just to enjoy the feel of her.

She gasps, forcing herself awake, and I go still.

Her head snaps up from the bed, twists sharply, and she attempts to scan her backside over her shoulder. She seems disoriented, blinking slowly with wide, startled eyes as she searches for the source of her pain. Her pink lips are still parted—the same as when she slept—but her expression is frozen like the rest of her… as still as a statue and paralyzed in shock.

But then, her eyes sharply rise and meet mine.

Fuck , that feels good.

I feel high when she gives me her attention.

She puts me under her spotlight, and it shatters me.

"Just hold still for me, baby."

With a flick of my wrist, I make a cut. From the shallow puncture in her cheek, I merely draw a small line with a sharp stroke. The nick is short and shallow, a cut that's deep enough to draw blood but not enough to warrant stitches.

She's so silent, it's nearly unsettling.

Nearly, but not entirely.

My gaze is fixed on the tiny cut, watching as the blood seeps and pools, then slowly drips toward her thigh.

Raspberry…

Her blood is that perfect shade of raspberry .

Still straddling her left leg, I rise on my knees and spread them, nudging the inside of her right thigh to part our legs. I grab her hips, spread my palms wide, press my thumbs into the crease of her ass, and scoop up the perfect mounds of flesh. I'm careful not to cut her again, though my right palm still grips the open butterfly knife against her hip.

I squeeze her hard.

I lift her hips off the bed.

She yelps and twists her upper body, keeps her head turned back to watch me as I slip back just enough to bend over her backside.

I lift my eyes to look at her from beneath my lashes, holding her stare as my head lowers. I flatten my tongue against the bleeding mound, and with a long, languid lick, I sweep across the cut.

Tasting her blood feels indecent, transcendent…

And it seals our fate with the covenant of my obsession.