Page 85 of Hunt Me

I point to his pants and sign, ‘Out.’

He does as I say with trembling hands, pulling his beautiful, hard length from the confines of his slacks. I don’t even hesitate the moment he’s exposed, leaning over the console and pulling him into my mouth. His fingers curl into my hair as I swallow him down, tasting every inch of him.

He doesn’t last long. I feel him thicken, feel his fingers spasm against my head, and his hips start to fuck upward as I tighten my lips around him and suck harder. When he stiffens, I know he’s seconds away from letting go, so I hum and swallow, and he spills into my mouth a moment later with a soft cry.

I’m still feeling a little wild and possessive, so I suckle him as long as he lets me, only pulling off him when he tugs on my hair and makes a soft noise of protest. Kissing my way up his chest, I press my lips to the corner of his mouth, then pull back to find him staring at me.

His gaze slips to my mouth, and he reaches out and cups my cheek. ‘Thank you.’

I dip my head as he wipes the mess from my chin. ‘I didn’t mean what I said,’ he signs when he takes his hand back. ‘You can talk to whoever you want. Not only me, but…I want to know that I’m yours.’

I take his hand and nibble on his fingertips as I nod. ‘Mine.’

He sighs and slips two fingers past my lips, all the way along my tongue until the point I’m almost gagging, and then he pulls them out and swipes them on his shirt. His eyes are a little dazed, pupils still blown, and I’m hard and ready to get home so I can fuck him properly.

‘Happy?’ I ask as I settle back into the seat.

He smiles softly at me. ‘Yes.’

Satisfied that the issue is solved, I put the car in drive and take us home.

A couple of hours after we got home and fucked long and thoroughly, Denver heads into the study to work, which leaves me on my own.

I don’t mind it. I have always liked space, but it feels a little strange that I’m not touching him. I know it’s not rejection, but his need to focus on something that isn’t me leaves me feeling slightly unsettled.

Even climbing into my coffin and attempting to nap doesn’t help, and I don’t like that. I’ve been an expert at self-soothing most of my life, so the fact that he was able to flip that upside down bothers me.

Not enough to send him away, but enough that I know I need to focus my brain elsewhere.

Wandering out back, I head for the shed, where I have several old caskets I bought at an auction. Three of them arefilled with dirt, and beside that is my small greenhouse, about waist-high, that opens from the top. I have several seedlings germinating that will be ready for planting soon.

I love gardening almost as much as I love graves. Everything comes from the earth, and everything returns to it. It is a simplicity of the universe that makes sense to me.

I have seen the way people attempt to control both life and death. I have seen them bargain and beg and cry when it comes to the end of their lives. I have seen them justify their misdeeds and try to convince my brothers that their sentence is unworthy.

But death is an inevitability. There is no escaping it, just as we have no control over our own birth.

I like things that are sure. That are ordered. I like things that don’t have gray areas and wiggle room. And that is probably why I like Denver so much. I know that sometimes he feels he is not enough, but the problem is he’s surrounded by people who are trying to be too much.

They’re running from who they are.

Denver has embraced himself for exactly who he is. He is a teacher. He is a man who wears feminine clothing and likes to perform as an alter ego. He is Deaf.

The fact that anyone ever made him feel like he was too little or too small makes me want to rage. To draw blood. To create physical scars to match the invisible ones they left behind on him.

Falling to my knees, I push my hands into the soil to make little holes for the runner beans and peppers that are ready to be planted. I don’t like the feeling of dirt on my skin or under my nails, but for the moment, I want to feel connected to my task, and it’s easy to distract myself with how my little garden will look when it’s fully green and sprouting all the vegetables I have planted.

It helps that this is something I’ve always wanted and never had time for before we came here. We didn’t have the space, and my father thought it was best if I never had time to rest. I think he was always afraid of me when I was idle.

A lot of people see me as a loose cannon. I’ve heard him call me that more than once. He thinks I don’t have control of my impulses because I have meltdowns and because I don’t find it logical to hide the way I’m feeling.

“What are you planting?”

I startle at the sound of Denver’s voice. He steps up beside me and lays a hand on my upper back as he peers over my shoulder at the work I’ve done.

“Peppers,” I tell him and point to the row I just planted. “Bell peppers. Jalapenos. Serrano.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cock his head as he observes.