Page 13

twelve

. . .

Bradshaw

Her blood is smeared all over my hands.

Fuck.

I take a deep, unsteady breath to center myself as I push my back against a tree and slide to the forest floor. My hands shake uncontrollably. This is usually when my panic sets in, when the anxiety spreads through my veins after training and all I can think of is death. But with her… My eyes linger on the bright red of her blood on my fingertips and it shoots heat to my dick.

“Goddammit,” I say under my breath.

Don’t get attached to her, I remind myself, leg bouncing with anxiety and the urge to calm the swelling in my pants. Do not let her stay.

I tilt my head back against the bark of the ponderosa and breathe slowly, letting my hand fall to my zipper and pull out my cock. I curl my fingers around the thickness of it and start pumping. Her blood slicks over my length and all I can think of as I beat myself off are her parted lips as I ran my fingers over her cut. The way her eyes rolled sensually back and her hips bucked at my touch.

My release is quick and unsatisfying. I need more. I let out a labored breath and stare out into the woods. Wondering why the more I show her who I am, the more she seems to be drawn to me. And more disturbingly, the more I’m starved for her.