Simon’s lip is busted, pink skin cracked down the middle.
Your brows are pinched in the middle, shoving him and forcing him to sit down on the kitchen chair. There’s blood running down his chin, and you’re not sure if it’s from his lips or from his teeth crashing into his gums.
“Didn’t need to do that.” You sigh, pressing an alcohol wipe to the wound.
He winces lightly before smiling wide. It draws more blood, but he’s too smug to care. “Bloke touched you.”
“Except he didn’t.” You emphasize, “He was just looking.”
“Arguably just as bad.” His big hands rest on your waist.
“People are allowed to look, you know?”
His fingers tighten around your hips.
“You can’t punch every guy who does.” You level him with a stern look.
He pulls you on to his lap, legs falling either side of his thighs. One hands gone from your hips to your chin.
“Why would I ever let them look at something that’s mine?” His voice is low, peering at you with heavy eyes.
His other hand slides lower, grip finding the globe of your ass through your jeans. It’s harsh, and you can tell there’s still adrenaline running through his veins that he’s decided to push on to you.
He drags you down, crashing your lips on to his. You try to pull away, the gash is still open and bleeding, but he holds you tight. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, fervent and possessive, forcing your lips open with his because he’s decided you should get a taste.
You taste the blood then, metallic and salty. It rushes into your mouth the harder you kiss, and it must hurt Simon, but you know that makes him like it even more. Your tongue swipes out, sliding along the broken skin. He groans, deep, hips bucking up into your parted thighs.
When you pull away, there’s remnants of his blood on your lips. He stares at them with lidded eyes, primal and hungry. His thumb pushes it into your mouth, and you suck instinctively, a horrible smirk breaking out across his face at the sight.
He’ll beat up every bloke or he’ll just keep you here in his lap forever.
