He wouldn't be satisfied that easily, either. His hand found her mound, pushing her dress up to her hips and yanking roughly at her panties until he could part her lips, brush her clit with his knuckle, feel her wetness against the back of his hand. He turned his hand over, palm up, and ground it against her, forcing two fingers into her slit, rewarded by the buckle of her knees, the thrust of her hips.
He pressed his palm against her clit. She pulled away just slightly, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and sucking it in, her eyes meeting his, a challenge lurking behind the molten gold. It incited something inside him, sparked a feral desire to take her any way he wanted to, without asking her permission, without waiting for her to be ready. He stamped it down, but it was too late. She'd seen it in his eyes. And her body responded in kind.
Her skin, flushed and hot, felt like it would burn anyone who tried to touch her. Greedy, mindlessly, she ground against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her wet slit, her clit throbbing into the course flesh of his palm. Her own fingers stroked him from base to tip and back again, squeezing lightly, then gently, then lightly again, a torturous rhythm that only made him press harder with his fingers, to torture her the same way.
Tricia realized, suddenly, that they weren't making love. They weren't even fucking. They were fighting. There was struggle in their kiss. There was ownership in their hands. She tugged at his cock while she pulled away, her free hand yanking at his wrist until he was forced to release his hold on her sex. She growled, moving past him, still holding him tight.
She climbed onto the bed, on all fours, stretching out like a cat with her elbows on the mattress and her ass in the air. With her dress rucked up around her hips and her panties around her knees, she stared back at him, daring him to deny her, daring him to take her, daring him to please her.
"Why are we doing … " he started to say, even though his own jeans had hitched low enough that the evidence of his desire was undeniably.
"Don't," Tricia whispered, rolling her hips slightly so that he could see her glistening slit. "Just … just come here."
He growled low in his throat, his body taking over. Grabbing her hips, he forced a gasp from her lips when he yanked back on her body. But he wasn't going to just give her what she was demanding. He let one hand skirt upward, taunting her through the fabric of her dress, to her breast, clutching it from below and kneading hard until she moaned and arched her back, pressing against him. Her nipple was hard even through her bra and dress, the hint of her arousal just a nub against Damon's thumb.
She heard the jingle of metal, the sound of denim against flesh, as Damon released himself fully, the head of his cock pressing against her slit. She bit her lip, her flesh anticipating the pleasure of his fullness, her pussy clenching prematurely, wanting him deep. He felt her and couldn't suppress his own groan, the heat of her radiating, beckoning him in.
He took a deep breath, knowing that this wasn't right, that this wasn't how he wanted her. But then she pressed backwards, impaling herself on him, and he was lost in her wetness, her tender sex sucking him in – where he belonged. He reached around her supple waist, found her clit between the folds of her sex, and stroked it.
Tricia felt him submerged inside her, felt his fingers playing her like an instrument, and clutched the sheets in her hands, bit down to keep from screaming her ecstasy. He started to take her, slow and steady, drawing her body against his and pushing it away to match his strokes. The way he filled her, pressing the head of his cock into wells of maddening pleasure in her womb, was too much, his finger on her clit just toying with her limits.
"Fuck," he growled from behind her, trying to hold back from fucking her too fast too soon – she was still tight, and it might hurt. But he felt her struggling to set her own pace. Faster, harder. "Slow down … "
"No," she mumbled, her lips full of sheets. She raised her head, arching her back further so that he slipped into her from a harsher angle. "No, I want you to fuck me … just … just like this … Damon … fuck me ‘til I come … make me come, Damon … "
He liked to be in charge, but her words were urgent, and they only made him harder, needier. She looked back at him, her eyes fevered, her face flushed. Reaching forward, he grabbed her hair, pulling her head back on her neck until she cried out in pleasure.
"Is this what you want? Is this how you want me to fuck you?"
The words were hard, and they made Tricia's gut clench. A knot in her stomach, a desperate and growing need in her muscles. She couldn't see the edge, but she knew she was approaching it quickly. The harder he fucked her, the more he played with her throbbing clit, the more he tugged on her hair, owning her, the more she felt she couldn't stop – and didn't want to.
Her fingers grabbed and grabbed at the sheets, her toes curling up into the soles of her feet. Her clit sent screaming pleasure to the knot in her stomach, her pussy dripped around him, and she wanted only one thing to finish it all. She opened her mouth, crying out wordlessly. She wanted his cum in her. She wanted to feel him spasm and release inside her pussy.
"Fuck me, just like that," she managed to whimper. "Please, Damon, fuck me … fuck me … fuck me … p-please … "
Her words were enough; she knew they would be. His finger pressed hard against her clit as he groaned, thrusting his hips against her so hard that she was pushed forward slightly. He yanked at her hair in his sudden release, and she felt the first burst of his cum inside her. All at once, it dissolved inside her; the need detonated into satisfaction, the knot detangled into ropes of ecstatic energy flowing through her veins, her world whited out as she bucked and came against him. Everything whittled down to a single, bright point, and she was dancing on it, with him …
And then it was over. And she wasn't mad at him anymore. She was just sad. For him, and for the boy he'd been, and a little bit for herself, too. She accepted that he was stubborn in subtle ways. If this was a normal courtship, that would have taken months to figure out. But there was nothing normal about Damon. And there was nothing normal about her. She had signed up for this, whether she was aware of it at the time or not. She wasn't going to talk herself out of it; she wouldn't let him talk her out of it, either.
"This doesn't change it," Damon said when he held her after, speaking into the wisps of hair that covered his lips. "I'm sorry. I still have to fight him."
"I know," Tricia said, her own voice muffled against his hard chest. "I know it doesn't change it."
He felt her stiffen in his arms, and when she looked up, her eyes were trapped somewhere between anger and regret.
"This wasn't for you," she said, her voice quivering slightly. "This was for me."
"Okay," he said, pulling her in tight again and kissing the top of her head. "Okay, baby. Okay."
"Can I come?" she asked a while later, when the sun outside had begun to cast long shadows through the wide windows.
He didn't answer, and he didn't need to. She closed her eyes and nestled in tighter.
30
A storm was descending on Miami. Everyone knew it. It wasn't a metaphor. The storm was as real as anyone who could feel it in the air.
Damon watched the greying skies from the gym, where he was getting in his last bit of practice before the real thing. The skies were biblical in their roiling terror. More shades of grey than he ever thought existed. He clicked his jaw a few times, felt the old ache of a bad fight lingering there. It was one of his weak points. It was a bad weak point to have. A bad jaw practically begged to be broken. But if Curly found his way there, managed to land a hit on Damon's jaw, he'd just fight through it. He'd done it before, fought through much more in fights where he cared far less.
Tricia watched the storm from her car, parked around the corner from the gym where she'd followed Damon. He'd taken a cab. She'd slipped out after him. She didn't know why – there was nothing she could do. But she wasn't going to go sightseeing, either. If this was the only way her man – her man – could see his way to happiness, she wanted to be there to see him get it. Or to soothe him when he didn't. She still wasn't angry. She was still just sad.
She was close to the ocean, and she saw how the storm churned up the sea into choppy, angry waves. The beach was abandoned. Even the sand looked wrong. She rolled down her window for a moment, let the electricity crackle over her cheeks. "For whatever we lose, like a you or a me, it's always ourselves we find in the sea," she thought, some remembered line, and wished she'd thought of it when Damon was at her side.