Last Kiss (Hitman #3) by Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare Page B
Authors: Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare
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CHAPTER TEN
NAOMI
I whimper when the first of the chemicals touches my head. The overwhelming smell of it, plus the dark color, makes me uneasy. I am reminded of tar, of mud, of all the dirty things I don’t like, and it’s hard for me to sit still and let him work.
“Shhh,” he soothes, and his fingers begin to rub at my scalp. He’s still not wearing the gloves, and this feels a little shocking to me. A little dangerous. He’s doing it wrong, and he doesn’t care what happens. He’s going to get all filthy, and he doesn’t mind at all?
I wish I were like that. Sometimes, I feel trapped by all the rules my brain has set for me. I’m trying to rebel, to take control, but just pressing my mouth to the same spot on his glass has exhausted my willpower. If I press my lips together, I imagine I still taste him, and I’m not sure I like this. I don’t dislike it, but I’m not sure I like it, either. It feels a bit like ownership. I am nowowned by Vasily, who wears no gloves and touches filthy hair dye so I don’t have to.
His boldness encourages me. This is a man who has said he does not like to be touched, but he’s touching me, and he’s not even grossed out by it.
I’m starting to understand how he feels. I don’t like germs, but . . . I’m fascinated by the thought of being contaminated by Vasily’s germs. It’s an odd thought to have, but I can’t help but press my fingers in the same spots that he has put his. On my temples. Against my hip. Now, his fingers are in my hair, mixing in filth, so I won’t touch that, but the temptation is there.
Earlier, I put my mouth on the spot where he drank. I suppose I’m testing myself with these small rebellions. I’m seeing if my mind can handle it. The kiss surprised me. It didn’t make me sick. I wasn’t even revolted. And now that I’ve tasted Vasily, I’ve shared his germs. His mouth is safe, in theory, because it’s something I’ve now been exposed to. Maybe if I’m covered in Vasily’s germs, I won’t get sick when he touches me, because we’ll have communal germs. We’ll have been thoroughly exposed to each other’s bacteria.
Maybe he needs to kiss me all over.
I rather like that idea—building up an immunity to one person’s microorganisms by constant contact.
I wonder if this is what he thinks when he runs his fingers through my hair. He’s very quiet, but I feel his hands on my scalp. They rub and rub, and I close my eyes, trying to remain still and remember that he’s pushing chemical filth onto my head.
But for some reason, it’s bothering me less the more his fingers touch my scalp. The hair dye scent is filling my nostrils now, the chemicals making my eyes water with their proximity, but the rest of my body feels curiously languid. At peace. It’s odd.
It’s . . . nice.
“Let me know if you’re going to vomit,” I tell Vasily. I’m seated next to the small sink in the lavatory, and I don’t want any splash back.
“Vomit?”
“Yes. Vomit. Expel one’s stomach contents forcefully. Purge. Expel. Regurgitate. Puke. Hurl. Throw up—”
“I know what you speak of. Why would I vomit?” He sounds confused.
Now I’m the one that’s confused. I frown as he squirts the last of the chemicals in my hair. Both of his hands go to my scalp and he begins to rub again, working the last of the horrible tarlike chemicals in. My eyes almost roll back with the pleasure of his touch—
strange, strange, strange, this isn’t like you, Naomi
—but I force myself back to the present. “You have told me repeatedly that you do not like to be touched, yet you are touching me without gloves. As I said, let me know if you’re going to vomit. I don’t want to be hit by it.”
“
Da
.” The word is clipped, dissonant. “I will not vomit.”
“Then you lied? After all those warnings to me about not lying to you, you’re lying to me?”
“Lied?”
“About not being touched,” I say as his fingers scrub at
CHAPTER TEN
NAOMI
I whimper when the first of the chemicals touches my head. The overwhelming smell of it, plus the dark color, makes me uneasy. I am reminded of tar, of mud, of all the dirty things I don’t like, and it’s hard for me to sit still and let him work.
“Shhh,” he soothes, and his fingers begin to rub at my scalp. He’s still not wearing the gloves, and this feels a little shocking to me. A little dangerous. He’s doing it wrong, and he doesn’t care what happens. He’s going to get all filthy, and he doesn’t mind at all?
I wish I were like that. Sometimes, I feel trapped by all the rules my brain has set for me. I’m trying to rebel, to take control, but just pressing my mouth to the same spot on his glass has exhausted my willpower. If I press my lips together, I imagine I still taste him, and I’m not sure I like this. I don’t dislike it, but I’m not sure I like it, either. It feels a bit like ownership. I am nowowned by Vasily, who wears no gloves and touches filthy hair dye so I don’t have to.
His boldness encourages me. This is a man who has said he does not like to be touched, but he’s touching me, and he’s not even grossed out by it.
I’m starting to understand how he feels. I don’t like germs, but . . . I’m fascinated by the thought of being contaminated by Vasily’s germs. It’s an odd thought to have, but I can’t help but press my fingers in the same spots that he has put his. On my temples. Against my hip. Now, his fingers are in my hair, mixing in filth, so I won’t touch that, but the temptation is there.
Earlier, I put my mouth on the spot where he drank. I suppose I’m testing myself with these small rebellions. I’m seeing if my mind can handle it. The kiss surprised me. It didn’t make me sick. I wasn’t even revolted. And now that I’ve tasted Vasily, I’ve shared his germs. His mouth is safe, in theory, because it’s something I’ve now been exposed to. Maybe if I’m covered in Vasily’s germs, I won’t get sick when he touches me, because we’ll have communal germs. We’ll have been thoroughly exposed to each other’s bacteria.
Maybe he needs to kiss me all over.
I rather like that idea—building up an immunity to one person’s microorganisms by constant contact.
I wonder if this is what he thinks when he runs his fingers through my hair. He’s very quiet, but I feel his hands on my scalp. They rub and rub, and I close my eyes, trying to remain still and remember that he’s pushing chemical filth onto my head.
But for some reason, it’s bothering me less the more his fingers touch my scalp. The hair dye scent is filling my nostrils now, the chemicals making my eyes water with their proximity, but the rest of my body feels curiously languid. At peace. It’s odd.
It’s . . . nice.
“Let me know if you’re going to vomit,” I tell Vasily. I’m seated next to the small sink in the lavatory, and I don’t want any splash back.
“Vomit?”
“Yes. Vomit. Expel one’s stomach contents forcefully. Purge. Expel. Regurgitate. Puke. Hurl. Throw up—”
“I know what you speak of. Why would I vomit?” He sounds confused.
Now I’m the one that’s confused. I frown as he squirts the last of the chemicals in my hair. Both of his hands go to my scalp and he begins to rub again, working the last of the horrible tarlike chemicals in. My eyes almost roll back with the pleasure of his touch—
strange, strange, strange, this isn’t like you, Naomi
—but I force myself back to the present. “You have told me repeatedly that you do not like to be touched, yet you are touching me without gloves. As I said, let me know if you’re going to vomit. I don’t want to be hit by it.”
“
Da
.” The word is clipped, dissonant. “I will not vomit.”
“Then you lied? After all those warnings to me about not lying to you, you’re lying to me?”
“Lied?”
“About not being touched,” I say as his fingers scrub at
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