Part of me wants to mess with her, tell her I put one on already, satisfy the desire that's grabbing hold so tight I can barely breathe. But I don't. For once, I think of someone other than myself. I don't realize it yet, but hey, there it is. I reach into my back pocket and pull out a condom. The package is custom with Indecency's logo on the front (Ronnie's idea, not mine): red with a white goat's head, black horns, X's over the eyes, tongue lolling.
Naomi starts to struggle, and I let her go, taking a step back, so she can get a full shot of me. I kick off my boots and push my jeans down, so I'm standing there butt friggin' naked. I like it better that way, seems more natural or whatever. Naomi faces me and locks my gaze with hers, retrieving a pair of sunglasses from her pocket. She slides them up her nose and purses her lips. “Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I hand it to her with a grin, knowing all the while that she's gotta be checking me out. Has to be. My ego won't let me think otherwise. “Best balloons in party city.” I think she rolls her eyes, but I'm not sure. Fucking shades. Naomi spins the package every which way looking for what, I don't know, but when she's satisfied, she lifts her chin and reaches up to undo the front clasp of her bra. It falls to the floor along with her skirt, but she leaves her boots on. Clever girl.
“This is going to be quick, impersonal, and then it's going to be over? Is that understood?”
“Don't have to tell me twice,” I say as Naomi wets her lips and steps forward, peeling open the condom package and removing the rubber. Lube glistens on her fingers as she switches it from her left to her right hand and curls her fingers around the base of my cock, obscuring the bat tattoos that wrap my shaft, caught in spiderwebs. Winged, but trapped. Desperate to be free, but doomed. I liked the symbolism, so I got it done – thankfully it's a tat I can actually remember getting.
The condom goes on quick and then Naomi steps back, leaving an entire foot of space between us. The air goes cold and then hot; music throbs like a dirty heartbeat, shaking the walls and killing the lights.
I see Turner standing there naked, abs tight and body slick with heat and sweat. His thick cock stands up proudly between his legs, just another piece of art added to that perfect body. He's so covered in tattoos that it's hard for me to take them all in: spiders, wolves, paw prints, bats, webs. He wets his lips, flashing me his tongue stud for just a moment before the light in the bathroom goes out with a spark.
A second later, our bodies crash together so hard it hurts, and I find myself on my back on the dirty, disgusting fucking floor, my hips cradled in Turner's hands, his cock pressing eagerly at my opening. It happens so fast, sliding in balls deep before I get a chance to think this through, to protest.
I blame the cocaine.
The music continues to blast from outside the door, and I can hear people screaming, shouting, begging for more. It's loud but not loud enough to block the guttural groans clawing their way out of Turner's throat, blending in seamlessly with my rapid breathing, so that we're practically playing a song of our own. I want to think of it as a requiem, but somehow I imagine that it's a prelude.
Shit.
My hands curl, fingers clawing at the tiles, sliding through bits of soggy toilet paper and discarded tampon wrappers. I should be disgusted, but I'm not. I'm excited, thrilled even. All this time hating Turner, wishing him ill, wanting him dead, has built up into this angry sexual fervor that begs me to ride him until my heart explodes from my chest and my fingers draw blood from his back.
I drag my nails down his spine, wrap him so tight that our sweaty bodies slide over one another, mixing heat and warmth, skin against skin. His balls tease my ass, and his mouth drops to mine. I nibble his tongue ring harder than I probably should, hurting him with my teeth while he grinds his hips so hard into mine that I feel like we're both going to break, that our bones are going to shatter and leave us a messy, dirty puzzle on the floor.
We don't speak. Why bother? We have nothing to say to each other with words that we can't say with our bodies right here, right now, rutting on the floor like a pair of wild cats, tails flicking, ears back, claws bared.
Turner breaks away from me and goes for my nipples, using his stud to flick them hard and bring chills over my body while goose bumps spring to life and betray me, letting him know how damn much I'm enjoying all this.
And I shouldn't be.
He fucked me over before, left me with that horrible decision …
But I still don't hate him as much as I should. Why? Why? Why?
I arch my back and press into him, drawing myself off the cold floor as much as I possibly can, letting Turner slide an arm beneath me, so he can prop me up. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I sit up and end up straddling Turner somehow, draping my arms over his neck and drawing his face back to mine.