This Bunny Bites | Part 18
Part 1 | AO3
Your deep focus and contemplation on the fight you had with Johnny last night was shattered with the shifting of the chair across from yours. Dutson was a man who yearned for a 'chase'. You gave one. No exchange of numbers, just appearing in places he was known to frequent every so often. Predators noticed patterns—sometimes they also forgot they weren't always the largest meat-eater in the biome. Today's appearance took shape in the bistro that catered to the most expensive and elite in the city. How surprised would those at the table be to see a jackal in bunny skin in their midst.
Lifting your gaze as you did your mimosa, you let your eyes smile and warm at the idea of sharing a meal with such an important man. Both lies.
"Jeffrey! What a surprise seeing you here! How are you this morning?" Sitting forward on your chair, you reached across the table to grip his too soft fingers between yours.
"Been a hell of a morning." He chuckled in a high-handed fashion. You affected your expression to show the appropriate amount of concern. Duston gave a limp squeeze of your hand. "I must say, Bunny, you are one hell of a hard woman to find."
The brittle aspect of your smile couldn't be faked. Shifting in your seat, you pulled your hand away as you straightened your back, toying with the stem of your glass. He looked you over, not your face, but the tits hoisted high and the draping of the silk blouse you borrowed from Cara with the sole purpose of looking sophisticated. You had forgotten a silk blouse acceptable at brunch when shopping with Lover Boy. Sipping on your drink once again, you gave yourself a moment to recalibrate your face. Giving a small hum as you settled the base of the glass just so, you glanced up at him through your lashes.
"You've been looking for me? Find anything interesting as you chased the White Rabbit?" Placing your elbows on the white tablecloth, you layered your hands and rested your chin atop them. The subtle tug of the conversation to Alice In Wonderland likely would lead him astray. Men who thought themselves smarter than everyone around them often thought of themselves as the Cheshire Cat, and not the Mad Hatter who's brilliance had all been stripped away by degrees. Mercury poisoning. What a dangerous way to go.
Dutson smirked as he leaned back in his chair, a small finger wave to a passing worker. "I'll take the eggs Benedict and an orange juice." He turned back to you without so much as an acknowledgement of the bus boy he had just demanded usurp the actual waiter's job. "No rabbits found, I'm afraid. Who would you say you are in the story of Alice?"
"I've always been partial to the Red Queen myself," you tossed out with a shrug as you turned back to your cheese danish, where it lay neglected on your plate.
"Oh? And why is that?" Dutson pulled his phone out; a glance at the screen showed a contact labeled "Mother" calling him. He ignored it. The device went face down on the table.
"Classic literature tends to file itself neatly under the Madonna/whore complex." Cutting a bite-sized sliver of your food, you brought the morsel to your mouth, "If those are my options, I will choose the woman with the best chance of creating her own choices."
Holding eye contact with Duston, you wrapped your lips around the fork before returning it to the table with a sensual slowness. You were good at performing sex. The brightness of the lights didn't deter you. Not anymore. Dutson's eye dilation at your lips spoke of your winning strategy.
His words came in a slower cadence than before.
"What choices would you make?" Dutson's eyes finally drifted up to yours as you placed another bite of breakfast on your tongue.
The smirk you gave had to have been the most real reaction you had given him so far.
"The ones that leave me fucked well, holding the winning hand, and with enough money to disappear."
He laughed, that airy, stupid, rich person laugh.
You took it as first blood.
The morning Dutson had invaded your breakfast table, you made a point to do the whole exchange of numbers that would let his people reach "your people". The entire interaction made you want to roll your eyes so hard they popped out of your skull, and then continued on rolling without you. But you could play secretary as well as you could queen. Or whore. The only role you could never quite conquer had always been the one that read as authentically you.
The prick of that truth is enough to draw you back to the matter at hand. You needed to move. Dance. You needed to feel the floor shake from the base beneath your toes as every ugly thought and feeling flowed from your body and mind. Dancing freed you.
Dutson had rushed off before his breakfast had arrived, his mother squaking in his ear. You thanked the waiter, who wore no name tag, and asked for a box. Johnny sat in the car, playing chauffeur today, and he would likely not turn his nose up at a free breakfast. You hoped. The waiter blinked like you had forgotten you line when you smiled at him with a warm 'thank you' falling off your tongue when he handed you the box of breakfast and informed you that Dutson had covered the bill. He scurried away not long after that.
Striding to the door, you fired off a quick text to the unsaved number in your phone.
>Ready when you are.
<Already waiting. Moved the car when Duston fled the scene like his arse was on fire.
>Mother dearest called him home.
You didn't have time to see if a reply rolled in from Johnny before he was exiting the driver's seat and positioning himself at the open back door. Neither of you shared a word as you slid into the back seat.
Only once the cute waiter and the sour memories were in the rear view did Johnny speak up.
"How's the fishin'?"
"Grand, found myself a marlin in the wild."
The grin shared between you ached with the fierceness of old wounds as the winds began to change. The bastard you shared as a sperm donor had once gone on a three-week-long fishing expedition. When he stumbled back through the door, on any mix of uppers and downers, he could only mumble about a marlin he'd nearly had between his hands before the line snapped.
"Price wants eyes on you any time you're out and about from now until we wrap this all up." Johnny's eyes stayed firmly on the road, ignoring the piercing stare you stabbed at him from the rear view mirror or to his shoulders.
"How nice it must be to want," you replied icily.
A glance you caught into the mirror, a slight shake of his head to indicate the recommendation to not fight.
Annoyed at your acceptance and the bile creeping up the back of your throat, you folded your arms and turned your eyes to the passing buildings.
"What's he expecting me to do? Wait like a princess for a carriage?"
"Aye."
Instead of letting your face react—you knew Johnny was watching—you took a deep breath and focused on lowering your shoulders and tightening the muscles that sat neatly against your spine. You had learned how to do it when you needed to stop shivering. No one knew you could do it; it wasn't like you could explain 'I tell my body to stand up straight and tighten my core and lengthen my spine and I can hold back the shivers for three to five seconds at a time' without sounding crazy. It made your ribs ache if you did it for too long.
The silence lingered while the buildings became shabbier and more familiar. Nearly home.
"I dislike the highhanded changes made about my life. Tell Total that he only gets one more lateral move before I force him back to contract negotiations."
Johnny pulled the car to a stop—you didn't wait for the wheels to stop turning before the door began swinging open.
"Total?" He called over his shoulder to you.
Turning, you bend down to see his face when it lands, "Well, if he can change the price, I can change the total."
Slamming the door on Johnny's laughter, you trudged up the stairs to your door. The itchy feeling in your soul hasn't left. Only amplified.
Ghost was the one that found you. Phone off, left at home with a note in your neatest handwriting sticking to the screen. 'BRB, blowing off steam.' Seems Total didn't like being given the slip. You wouldn't have needed to walk out the door without your music if you could have just trusted that he hadn't already bugged your phone. Your muscles froze as you spun slowly around the pole. He had to have bugged your car. The fucker was going to pay for that.
Sasha had let you borrow her private studio when you knocked on her office door.
"You look like hell." It had been the first thing she said to you after looking up from her computer.
"Thanks, Sash. You were always one to keep it honest." Shifting from one foot to another, you crumpled the elbow of your opposite sleeve in your hand. "Lot of childhood memories trying to surface right now. Can I borrow a pole for the night, and some music if you have any to spare?"
The jacket had been more a comfort than a need. Armor in cotton.
A softness Sasha held in reserve for the youngest girls at the club shifted through her expression like dawn. It sent an ache through your jaw and your fingers to clench tighter.
"All my public rooms are in use today."
You were the only one who heard the crack. It hurt like a fault line giving way.
Sasha continued, a look in her eyes that burned like the red-hot end of a cigarette.
"What I can do for you, though, is get you set up in my private space. That room has a dual connection to my playlists; you won't be able to choose what's playing, but it's better than nothing." Sasha tipped her chin toward her computer, "I've got to work on billing tonight and can't do that without music."
Not even the times you had fists around your neck had made your throat feel this tight. All you could do was nod in thanks. No conversation plucked at your raw emotional strings as you followed Sasha out of the office and further down the dark hall. Thank god. Roughly fourteen steps later, she reached for a specific portion of the dark wall and pushed into a new, darker space.
Sasha had the mood lighting on and set before your 'not presentable even for the grocery store' sneakers passed the threshold. She strode across the room, flicking open a hidden panel, and smooth jazz poured into the space, grains of sand replacing the air you needed to breathe. You hadn't made it more than two steps into the room when she turned on a heel and crossed the room. Sasha cared well for those she deemed as hers.
It hurt worse, the soft pat to your wrist of the hand that still clutched your sleeve like it could buoy you out of hell, because she didn't say a word. The click of the latch had you scrambling out of your clothes. Shoes went flying as you toed them off, followed by your sweater that got caught on your hair as you yanked. Pants turned inside out as you escaped them. No better than a toddler stripping; even your socks landed in two different directions. Then you did the thing you always warned new people never to do—you launched yourself at the pole without warming up in the slightest.
The next hour saw you pulling out your hardest moves and holding them, fighting the quivers of pain as your muscles fought with your feelings.
You ignored him when the door opened. If he found this room, it was because Sasha let him; you did wonder what he had offered her for the knowledge. It took another five minutes before you addressed him. Ghost had planted him back against the wall, eyes tracking you as you spun round and round. He shifted only once, head leaning forward as he stretched his back. Due to your bad luck, he nearly took a heel to the temple for his trouble.
"You're going to end up with a concussion if you do that again." You had aimed for a neutral tone. What came out had been a growl.
"Wouldn't be the first," came the flippant reply.
Once your toes could scrape the floor, you stomped up to the man. Hands curled into your fists and resting on your hips, you glared up at him. Why the good golly fuck had genetics said this asshole needs to be excessively tall?
"The fuck is wrong with you?"
Dark eyes flicked between yours above his black medical mask.
"Don't know. Shrink refuses to see me anymore." Ghost gave a single shrug of his shoulder to accompany his blase statement.
"Of course he fucking doesn't." Annoyed beyond belief and not even sure why, you spun on the ball of your foot and shifted into a twirl around the pole.
You had completed one full rotation when he opened his big mouth.
"Never had a private pole session before."
Welp. Guess you were done exhausting yourself of emotions. Letting yourself rotate a half turn further, you shifted into a walk the instant your feet found the hardwood. Sasha had left the panel open for you. With a quick flick, it opened. A scan found a dial that wasn't pointed down like all the others. You twisted until it clicked. That done, you stalked back across the room and snatched up your clothes off the floor.
Both feet were back on the floor, hands shimmying your pants up your thighs, when a hint of a breath brushed over the back of your neck. The gooseflesh skittered down both arms.
That should have been it.
It never was.
Frozen, you watched as an arm, bare of tattoos and with a sleeve shoved up close to his elbow, curved around your waist, never quite touching as wide, thick fingers flicked at the jewel of your belly button ring.
"Never could figure out the appeal of these."
Breathing hurt. The physical stretching of the fascia between your ribs ached with Ghost touching you, but not.
"Piercings?"
"Gems." He gave a slight tug that yanked the bottom out of your stomach as he did it.
When the warmth at your back disappeared, you forced your shaking arms into motion. Completing the task of getting your pants over your ass, you turned to look at Ghost. He watched you. Something about the tilt of his shoulders told you he thought he had won something by taking you by surprise. That wouldn't last long. One should never battle outside their weight class for a reason.
Lifting your shirt from the floor with your foot, you slid the tight baby tee over your bra. Once it settled flush on your skin, you snaked a hand up the back, unclipping your bra. Everyone knows the move: left hand to right shoulder, down comes a strap. Right hand to left shoulder, and the girls are free. You pull your bra out from the front of your shirt and toss it to Ghost. Your battle lines drawn, you don't wait for him to catch the distraction to bend over and slide your socks on and begin to tie your shoes. Men had been taught to like breasts perky, up high for gazing. They never needed to be forced to like them as they hung.
The glance you pass over his groin as you stand confirmed what you hoped. Someone noticed.
"Gems are made to catch the light," you flicked one of the gems on the nipple piercing while staring at his face, "and the eye."
It took a long, long moment before Ghost could pull his eyes up from the taut fabric of your shirt. You smirked. He glowered. And so it began.
It went on like that, a brush of his hand over your ass as you stepped out of the room, and he turned off the lights. You raised him a step into his space, brushing all back against him as you opened the door to leave the building. He tried again after you had settled into the passenger seat of the car. Man thought he was so slick trying to 'help' you with putting your seatbelt on. You took it from him with a raising of your brow.
Ghost lost in totality when you forced him through a drive-through for some late-night takeaway. When the cashier's voice traveled through the ether, you shed your seatbelt and leaned over the center console, both hands on Ghost's thighs, your thumb brushing his tip, as you placed your order. At the window, he passed over his card without a word and drove away before you had a chance to reingage your seatbelt. You did nothing to contain the triumphant smile that toyed at your lips.
The small snack dragged out its existence until you were parked in front of your building. You watched him stiffly climb from the vehicle and round the engine for your door. Setting the empty container in the cupholder to force him to think of you later, you stood from the now open door.
Starting for the door, you heard his near-silent footsteps trail behind you.
"What a gentleman, holding my bra, buying me a snack, and even walking me to my door." You gave a hum of pleasure.
The light above your apartment burned out four nights ago. That's why you didn't see it coming. Before you could key in your door code, Ghost's hands were on you, spinning you.
“I thought you said you have seven piercings,” Ghost backed you against the door.
He dipped low, the puff of his air on your neck sending your spine straighter than before. He had taken off his mask. Not that you could see anything. You were a sadist, though, the tantalizing want making the interaction rank higher and higher.
Nose bumping your ear, you heard a whisper.
“One, two.” The hint of his breath across your eyes told you where he headed next. “Three, four.”
Hands brushed against your shirt as they rose to your breasts. The lack of bra only now becoming a weapon against you instead of only him.
A whimper, nearly pained, escaped you as his thumbs brushed over them.
“Five, six. But where is seven?” The tip of his tongue flicked your tragus.
Grabbing the meat of one thumb, you pulled his hand down, fighting with the waist of your bottoms with the other. Throwing your head back against the door as his hand brushed the skin just above your lower lips, you pushed his hand further. Further still.
“Curl your finger, Ghost.”
Hot damn you hadn’t been this turned on since…well, ever.
He did as commanded, and white flashed across your vision.
The man became a gargoyle, allowing you to punch in the code, twist the doorknob, and slip inside. The light you left on above the stove gave you the hints of a strong nose, cheeks stained with scars, and a dumbfounded look.
“Seven.” You closed the door in his face.
Locking it, you headed straight to your room. You needed to write a sex scene for one of your novels and then work out your tension on a couple of toys and pass out for the night.
Part 17 | Part 19
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Cute divider from @/jimzittos
A/N: Hi..hello..not dead…sorry bout that unexpected hiatus…still kinda on hiatus but I was able to finish up this chapter and am going to try and work my way through my open stories while I continue to suffer under the weight of my licensure choices.
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