It only takes one word from him. My least favourite word. He knows it; he’s doing it to get a reaction.
“Moist.” He grins.
I punch him in the belly. Not a real punch, because I don’t want to actually piss him off. Playful. A tap.
Pushing the boundaries, since he’d explicitly told me I would regret hitting him.
“Did you just fucking punch me?” His voice is low and angry.
An open hand lands on my thigh, drawing a scream and a loud slapping noise, flesh meeting flesh.
I try to cover myself with my arms as he raises his fist. “I’ll fucking show you what a punch looks like,” he says, in his scary, I Mean Business voice. This is not the voice that he uses when he laughs with me, or fucks me, or talks with me. It’s not the voice he uses in scenes. It’s the voice he conjures forth when he is genuinely enraged.
I am afraid. I’ve never before felt with him like he was going to really hurt me. He stares me down, arm still raised, still threatening. My chest is heaving. I am shaking, goosebumps covering my body. I can feel the tears stinging my eyes.
He lowers his hand. “Did I scare the bunny?” I nod, and curl into his leg.
He pets my head as he contemplates. “Someday, you know, you’re going to be much less easy to scare. And that’s when I can truly fuck with you.”
