Fracture(7)
Zeth slams himself into me over and over, our eyes now locked together. Something…something is passing between us. With each and every thrust, it feels like I’m drawing closer to something, being pulled in like a boat toward shore. He reaches down between our bodies and starts to stroke my clit, applying a pressure that shows he means business. He wants to make me come. I’m ready to do that—I want to do it for him.
As the pleasure builds to hurricane Zeth proportions inside me, I feel like…I want to do something I know is stupid. I lean forward and do it anyway before I can stop myself. My lips meet Zeth’s, crash down on his as he pummels me against the wall, and for one blissful moment I’m in heaven. His lips on mine, full and sweet and tasting like bubblegum and sex. The most divine thing I’ve ever experienced. And then I’m coming.
Involuntarily my head kicks back, smacking into the wall behind me as a surge of pure fire ignites through my body. I see stars, from both the pain of cracking my head on plaster and the orgasm that explodes through me. Zeth comes at the same time, roaring out his climax just as he did back at his apartment. His fingers dig into my skin again as his movements slow, until they stop altogether; he breathes heavily, mouth open, pressed against my neck for a long moment before he lets go of my thighs and slips out of me. A warm, wet sensation rushes out of me and I realize to my horror that he didn’t wear a condom.
Suddenly, the high that I’m floating on pops and fizzles and I come crashing back down to earth with a startling thump. Zeth pulls away from me and turns around, gifting me with a glorious view of his perfect ass. He buries his hands in his hair. He’s freaking out, too.
I wrap my arms around my naked body, suddenly not so okay with being on show. “It’s…it’s okay,” I murmur. I have to put his mind at rest, even if the next sentence out of my mouth is going to sound incredibly cliché. My voice is still low and nervous as I say, “I’ll get the morning after pill. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He drops his hands to his sides, turning around slowly. His face is a mask of conflicted anger.
“Never do that again,” he says. He shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Don’t ever fucking kiss me again.”
This Newan woman said to come by her office at two but that's not gonna fly. She asked Sloane to come, but since she's working, this prissy shrink will have found someone else to chaperone our little meeting, if only to prove a point to Sloane—this guy is not someone you should be spending time with. She's probably right, but it’s still pissed me off. She doesn’t know what I’ve done so far to keep her friend fucking safe. I’m glad Sloane couldn’t come, anyway. After screwing her brains out against the wall yesterday, I’ve been in a foul mood. I shouldn’t have put down that rope. I should have tied her up and done whatever I damn well wanted to her, used her like I’ve done with every single other person I’ve fucked. And yet, I saw that look of hesitation on her face and I changed my mind. It’s not that I couldn’t have done it; I definitely could have done it and I would have enjoyed it more than any normal person would. It was just that I didn’t want her to feel like that. And then she’d ruined everything by kissing me and I’d lost my shit and stormed out. Seeing her is the last thing I need right now. So yeah, it’s a good thing she’s at work and not sitting next to me outside Pippa Newan’s practice.
I show up at midday. The building overlooks Greenlake Park. The place is a rainbow of autumnal colors—red, orange, russet, green. Leaves are banked in great, heaped mountains, ready to be collected around the trunks of the trees. Families walk their dogs; mothers push their kids on the swings. A couple strolls slowly together, arms linked, thick coats drawn tight. Steam rises off the coffee cups they sip from. This is not the ghetto. Sloane tried to make her friend out to be some kind of fucking saint for taking on felons as her patient list. This looks like suburban highlife, though. If I were to be as judgmental as Pippa is, I'd assume she's getting rich and fat from the government subsidy she's given to deal with these motherfuckers, and the parolees are probably fuming about the arrangement ’cause they have to ride the number sixteen to this bullshit neighborhood, only to have it rubbed in their faces that they’re never going to be able to afford an apartment on this block. Kind of a pretty big fuck you.
I hover outside the building, watching the entrance, smoking my cigarette. I know this place is going to have a security entrance, probably with a concierge that doubles as heavy muscle should the clientele get a little rowdy when the good doc refuses to refill their Valium scripts. I finish that smoke, light another one. The cold sinks through my leather jacket and settles in my bones. After a while I get up and pace as I smoke, always watching the door. Even though I’m paying attention I still nearly miss my chance when it comes.