Flesh Series: The Complete Box Set (Flesh, Skin, Flesh Series: Shorts)

by Kylie Scott

  Roslyn gave the drawer of supplies a dirty look. “You’re a pervert, by the way.”

  “Butt plugs have their place, darling.” Nick sat on the bed beside her, unscrewed the cap on the oil then set it aside. “I can demonstrate on you if you like.”

  “Sod off.”

  “You’ve never played with one? Really?”

  “You’re a freak.”

  “Says the woman who can’t admit to liking it when I take control.”

  She growled.

  “Lie down,” he said, placing gentle pressure on the middle of her back.

  “We need to establish some ground rules.”

  “Sure. Pants off!” He tucked a finger either side of her black yoga pants and dragged them down her legs before she had a chance to fight him. Pale blue silk panties remained, cut to reveal a nice slice of her ass cheeks. Silk. He liked silk. Satisfaction hummed through him at the sight.

  “Hey!” Her hand flailed at his thigh, landing a slap that was half-hearted at best.

  “Hush. How did you think I was going to give you a rubdown? Relax.”

  She huffed and grumbled, but bad luck.

  “Ros, if we don’t work the kinks out it’ll be worse tomorrow.”

  “It’s your kinks that concern me.”

  He snorted. “Come on. Stop fussing.”

  “Fine. Just make it fast.”

  As if. He poured the almond oil into his hand, letting his skin warm it. “Fast is up there with polite. Bloody unlikely.”

  It would be nice to start with her thighs, but he knew it was best to work his way up to them. Safer. She lay still, tolerating him for now, though who knew how long her lack of resistance would last. Physical exhaustion was an old army trick for breaking down willful resistance. Get down and give me twenty, and all that. It worked just fine on Ros, too.

  He smoothed his hands over one tense calf, working the line of muscle in long strokes with his fingers and thumbs. No chance of rushing; he just enjoyed the feel of her lovely soft skin beneath his hands. Tension eased out of her gradually as he made no obvious grab for her ass or anything. She relaxed against the mattress, body going lax as he worked over the bottom half of first one leg and then the other. The rounds of her ass cheeks were clear against the silk panties. He would have loved to have sunk his teeth into her there. He hadn’t bitten her again, despite her epic loss to him regarding the tree climbing. Encouraging her was more important than getting his jollies.

  For the time being, at least.

  “Should have put a towel under me,” she said, interrupting his filthy thoughts. “We’re going to get the sheets dirty.”

  “Never mind.” He wished. Dirty he could definitely do. Time to change the subject. “We’ll just go for a walk tomorrow. Take it easy.”

  “We can go outside again?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  His fingers slowly massaged her thighs, inching higher, but not too high. The palms of his hand slid over the sides of her legs and the sensitive area below her butt. Nice, long upward strokes to lull her into submission. That was the way to go. She almost didn’t fight him when he went for the hem of her long-sleeve T-shirt. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

  “Oh, you’ve done enough. Thanks.”

  “Roslyn, at the very least your arms need a rub. We have to get the sleeves out of the way. Don’t want to get oil on them.” There were already marks where his fingers were holding it, but she didn’t need to know that. “Okay?”

  She looked back at him, brows a straight line and face argumentative but tired. There were faint bruises under eyes and lines of tension around her mouth. Now was the time to strike.

  “You’ve got a bra on. What’s the big deal?” He gave her his most open, harmless, boyish face.

  “Alright.” She frowned some more but let him draw the shirt up and over her head, off her arms. Slowly, carefully, he revealed soft skin and magnificent fucking curves. Nick swallowed hard and licked his lips, kept the lust off his face in case she still watched him. Ros reminded him of a schoolmarm, one with a twelve-inch ruler ready to come down on his knuckles—or somewhere far worse.

  “Relax,” he said.

  The notches of her spine intrigued him, the feel of that line of bumps beneath his fingers. He poured some more oil into his hands, all ready to get to work. It would be hard to reach everything from where he was.

  “Hang on.” Nick got to his knees and swung a leg over her, crouching above her thighs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can reach better from here.” He leaned over so she could see him and smiled blandly. “Relax.”

  Without waiting for a response, he started in on her arms. The knots in her muscles were right there, sitting beneath the skin.

  Ros sighed and rested her head on the mattress. “That feels good. Thanks.”

  “No worries.”

  “You’re still not getting sex.”

  “What a surprise.” He laughed.

  The funny thing was … she laughed too. A low little chuckle he’d never heard before. Her shoulders shook beneath his hands in time with the noise. What he’d give to really make her laugh, a big belly laugh that had her clutching her middle and tears leaking out of her eyes. How amazing would it be for her to be that happy and carefree, and for him to be the reason? A sort of selfish thought, but then again, sort of not.

  He snorted. What about this set-up wasn’t selfish?

  “What?” she asked, trying to peer back at him.

  His hands cupped her shoulders, just sitting there. Again, he angled himself so she could see him without killing her neck. “I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before.”

  “Oh.” She gave him an awkward smile and laid her head back down.

  “I like it.”

  She blinked several times, but made no reply.

  Fair enough. He got back to massaging her shoulders, letting his fingers wander along her arms, all the way down to her hands. If she could see him stretched out above her, over her, measuring out her body with his own, she would have been very fucking uncomfortable. As it was, her breathing picked up its pace. He could smell the flowery shampoo she used in her hair, familiar enough to make him smile. Of course his dick twitched in his pants, but he ignored it. Being with Ros was a unique sort of torture. The feel of her beneath him sat front and center in his brain every minute, no escape. Best thing to do would be to think of something horrible, like the other day at the school. What would have happened if Roslyn had been there without him? Fear wiped the smile right off his face. Never, ever, ever would she be in that position. Nick rested his forehead against the back of her head for a moment, taking a second to calm himself. She was alive and fine, and she’d stay that way.

  “What are you doing now?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Just thinking.” He rubbed the pads of his fingers over her delicate knuckles, between them. “I’m glad it was you I found.”

  She didn’t reply but he could feel the tension running through her, beneath him. Not what he’d intended. He sat back, giving her some breathing room, letting her have her space. His hands slicked over the surface of her skin, getting back to business. Back up her arms and over her shoulders, tracing out her ribs. Carefully avoiding the pale blue straps of her bra.

  There was a mole to the right-hand side of her spine, a third of the way down. He brushed a finger back and forth over it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Her voice wavered, like the fact stunned her, or unnerved her.

  “Tell me you hate me,” he said, half joking.

  He waited for the words, fully expecting them but not quite as hardened to them as he’d like to be. Those pretty lips parted, and her ribcage moved beneath the palms of his hands as she took a deep breath. But then her lips sealed shut again.

  “Ros?” He leaned around to get a better look.

  Her eyes were closed and her face relaxed. Really relaxe
d, more than he’d ever seen.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod and her breathing fell into a deep, steady rhythm and stayed that way. He’d really worn her out.

  “You don’t hate me. You trust me,” he whispered, because it was true.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I need a knife,” Roslyn announced the next day.

  She stood beside Nick, hands hanging by her sides and face serene, waiting calmly. Or hopefully it looked like she waited calmly. What a joke. Her insides had been a jumble all day, humming and buzzing, anxious about everything. She’d read Gone with the Wind for a while, paced for a while, then read while she paced for a while. Not even having her beloved spare reading glasses could help her mood. Scarlett schemed and it just pissed her off. Normally she adored that southern belle, but not today. The walls were pressing in again but there would be no walk outside as promised the night before. The constant drum of rain on the rooftop assured her of that.

  “Why do you need a knife?” Nick crouched beside the fireplace, feeding it wood. He pottered along, one job after another, keeping himself busy. His industriousness peeved her, too. The dude couldn’t sit still. Flickering flames cast weird shadows across his face. The hollows beneath his cheekbones made him appear positively evil.

  Candles were scattered about the place. With everything shut up they’d be sitting in the dark without them. No need for socks or sweaters in the cozy, warm air. She’d been plodding around in jeans and T-shirt, feet bare. All the better for dragging them across the wooden floor, making the chain scrape and sing. Nick rewarded her with a flinch each and every time, like clockwork.

  Fuck him. He deserved that and so much more.

  With a flourish she brought forth the glossy red fruit. “I need a knife because I like to peel the skin off my apples.”

  “The skin’s good for you.”

  She just looked at him and waited.

  “Alright.” He rose to his feet with a long-suffering sigh and looked down at her. Eyes boring into her like he could read her mind. He wished. He’d wisely refrained from any further recitations from her diary. Just as well; her insides were wound tight enough. From his back pocket he pulled a Swiss Army knife and extracted the shiny silver blade. “The rest are in the truck. Will this do?”

  “That’ll be great. Thank you.”

  But he didn’t hand it over, just held it there. He appeared to be doing the rugged-man thing again, overdue for a shave. She’d shove him into 573.3—Prehistoric Man. A couple of days’ growth lined his jaw and framed his mouth. His fringe flopped over his high forehead and he pushed it back with an impatient hand, not taking his eyes off her. “Why don’t I do it for you? Don’t want you to slip up and cut yourself.”

  “I won’t. And I know how I like it done.”

  Dark eyes stared her down for a long moment. If he wanted to unnerve her he’d have to try harder. Familiarity had definitely kicked in. “Okay.”

  Without further ado she took the knife from his hands. Her fingers accidentally brushed against the palm of his hand and heat raced up her arm. She jerked back, almost dropping the knife. Best not to touch him. Safer. Distance was her friend. “Thanks.”

  He nodded.

  Sadly, the furthest point of retreat remained the kitchen. She pulled out a chopping board in preparation for part two of the process. But first for part one. There was a ritual to this. One she’d always been rather particular about.

  Nick’s eyes were still on her. She could feel him attempting to mess with her mind. Trying to drive her batty seemed to be his life plan. Her shoulders rose and her spine curved, creating the illusion of privacy. He had no place in her thoughts.

  Things had become weird, or weirder, since the massage last night. Or even further back to the turning-her-on bullshit from yesterday morning. Neither of them spoke much. Talk had become quick and to the point, efficient and minimal. But he watched her.

  And while he’d always watched her, now there were subtle differences. Her traitorous body seemed over-aware of him. Nerve endings lived in a constant state of high alert. Ignoring him had become more taxing than usual. Being tuned into him sucked the life right out of her.

  No more.

  She about-faced and set her butt against the kitchen cabinet, began the slow and careful procedure of taking off the apple skin in one long strip. Round and round she went, sinking the sharp blade in just the right distance, her concentration absolute. She was a pro at this. It had been her trick at the school when she’d been rostered on to monitor lunch breaks. The kids loved it. Had loved it. There was something almost Zen about it.

  She did her best to ignore him when he joined her, his stare set on her practiced hands.

  Not so fucking relaxing. Because she couldn’t have a minute’s peace, could she?

  Sure enough, the atrocious testosterone-laden scent of him clogged up her nose. Damn it. He stood far closer than necessary, but she could block it out. Hold her breath so his smell couldn’t reach her and concentrate on the task.

  But he radiated heat. The back of her hand warmed, the one carefully wielding the knife while her left tended to the apple. Round and round she turned the fruit, keeping the depth and width as consistent as possible. It was so much damn harder to do with him scrutinizing and distracting that she went much slower than normal. She could feel her face scrunching up in concentration. The tip of her tongue sat firmly between her teeth.

  Good, this was good. Already, she felt more like she had herself back under control.

  A nice slow exhale followed by a robust inhale, that’s the way. She hunched over further, focusing, trying to block him out. No problem. She’d done this a thousand times, a million. He meant nothing to her. He was a nonentity. Then he shifted slightly. He moved his weight from one foot to the other.

  Her hand slipped, slicing through the apple’s skin, and the length of red peel tumbled to the floor.

  “Fuck, no.” Inconceivable. That hadn’t happened in years.

  “Never mind,” he said, like it was nothing. Like what he did to her life was nothing. What he did to her.

  She lifted her head and glared at him. “You did that.”

  His eyes widened. “Roslyn. I didn’t touch you.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “You were lurking,” she said, voice rising with every word. She enforced her point with the tip of the knife, waving it directly below his nose. Anger didn’t begin to cover it. Fury coursed through her, making her tremble and shake. “You’re always lurking.”

  Nick leaned back, gaze glued to the blade. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? I can’t even get away from you for a minute and you’re back again, hovering over my shoulder. Stalking me. Sticking your nose into everything I do. You’re fucking insane! You’re keeping me hostage! Who does that? Huh? What kind of fucked-up individual pulls this sort of shit?”

  Her livid words bounced around the cabin, echoing off the walls. The air hummed with them like static electricity. She could see the exact moment he snapped, when her abuse released the demon in him. Someone had flicked a switch.

  “So put us both out of our misery,” he roared. His face morphed from calm to enraged, lips drawn back in a snarl. He snatched up her hand, gripping it tight, and pressed the shiny blade to his own throat. “Go on.”

  “Nick!” If he frightened her before, he scared the hell out of her now. Strong fingers clenched her hand, making her bruise sting. The apple fell, forgotten, as she tugged on her wrist, fighting him for possession of the blade. “Stop it.”

  “Do it.”

  “No!”

  “You know you want to.” His eyes were lit with anger or desperation or who the fuck knew what. They terrified her. “The key to your padlock’s in my back pocket. Now’s your chance, sweet.”

  “Let me go.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,
Ros. You gonna cooperate?”

  “I mean let go of my hand.” She pulled, but he pushed back. His skin compressed into a single tortured point then gave. The tip of the knife punctured his neck. It was a pin-prick, nothing more. But blood bloomed bright and horror tightened her throat. “Nick.”

  He bared his teeth at her in a wide, manic grin. “It’s not so hard, killing people. You can do it. God knows I deserve it, keeping you locked up like this. I’m an animal. You’re right.”

  It felt like fire speared up her arm, her muscles straining furiously. He was too strong. But if he did this …

  “No regrets. Nice and fast, Ros. Come on.” His fingers tightened around her hand. Panic scattered her wits and her heart beat so hard it hurt. Her pulse roared in her ears. No, no, no.

  “Don’t you dare,” she cried, her eyes hot. Her vision swam. She blinked back tears, desperately trying to see him. “Don’t you fucking dare, Nick!”

  The man stopped and stared, eyes fierce and mouth tight. Incredulous—that’s how he looked, as if he’d woken startled from sleep. “Me?” The back of his hand stroked softly across her cheek. “How about you? Crying is cheating.”

  “I’m not crying,” she yelled in his face.

  “You’re about to.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re hurting my hand,” she said, the first thing to come to mind. His grip was bruisingly tight, but who cared? Compared to him threatening to slit his own neck with the knife, it didn’t really factor. It might distract him, though.

  “Sorry.” He frowned. One by one he peeled back his fingers. Her skin was striped pink from his grip. “Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

  “And you think I want to hurt you?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? Stop that,” he tsked and put his hands to her face. Gently the pads of his thumbs brushed over her cheeks. “Do you forgive me?”

  Did she? Something big and ugly and tangled sat within her, dying to get out. Something rib-bustingly, heart-burstingly horrible, and it was all his fault. Her insides hurt. He made it impossible to breathe. She couldn’t stand it any longer.