It takes him a moment to spy me, standing there in the corner with my gun raised.
“You going to shoot me, Pint-Size?” he asks, but there's no humor in his voice at all, just an empty coldness that does nothing to make me want to put the gun down. I take a few steps closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest. He came back to see me? Why? I hate that I even have to wonder if he's here to hurt me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, edging my way closer. When I hit the end of the bed, he closes the distance between us, coming up on me fast. The smell of leather and motor oil surrounds him, but so does something else. Is that … blood? I swallow hard as he presses his chest into the muzzle of the gun, leather vest crinkling.
“Well?” he asks, his voice subdued and his breathing heavy. “You've already knocked a few holes in my heart, so why not make it bloody official?”
“Are you …” I begin as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see that he's wearing that vest and nothing else on top. A faint metallic whiff burns my nose as I try to look and see if he's hurt. Of course, if my sleep addled brain was thinking clearly, my first thought wouldn't be to wonder if he was the one that was hurting. “Is that blood that I smell?”
Royal knocks my dominant hand aside and grabs my wrist, squeezing hard until the gun falls from my fingers and hits the floor. Before I can even think to scream or fight, he's dragging me to him, crushing my body up against his.
Our mouths meet with a violent clash, his right arm encircling my waist so tightly I feel like I'll never be able to catch my breath again. For a split second there, I almost push him away, demand that we talk about everything that's happened, what I've done, what he's done, but then Royal's tongue dives deep and the urge is gone, replaced with something more primal.
My body relaxes into his grip as he angles us back towards the bed and then pushes me down, climbing on top of me, denting the mattress, his lips and teeth at my throat, his hands roaming under my robe and finding my breasts.
I cry out at his rough grip, at his frenzied kisses, at the harsh way he handles me. Something's not right, I know that, but I can't stop.
“Royal,” I groan, loving the way his name slips from my lips, gasping and threading my fingers through his hair as his teeth find my nipple. He bites and nips and kisses his way down, shoving my robe out of his way until he finds my already throbbing clit, the stubble on his face scraping against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
“Fuck,” he growls, like he knows he shouldn't be here, like this is a big mistake that he can't stop myself him from making. “Fucking fuck.” Royal shoves his fingers into my wet cunt without mercy, knuckles slamming against me as I bite my lower lip and buck my hips, struggling against the sudden invasion, against the rush of unexpected pleasure. “You're killing me, Pint-Size.”
“S-slow down,” I gasp, but I don't mean it. I want more, him, all of it. My body betrays my words by arching into his touch as his tongue flicks out and tastes my clit. Royal's left hand slides down the inside of my thigh as he tastes me like I'm his favorite dessert, a delicacy made for him and only him.
Nobody else gets a taste.
That's the message I get as his tongue drives me towards the edge and then stops, like he can feel my fingers clutched around the edge of that precipice, about to fall. But not yet. He won't let me fall yet.
When Royal lifts his head up and looks at me, his eyes are shadowed in darkness, mouth downturned, muscles thrumming with need and desperation and … violence. That's the sharp edge I'm getting from him. That's what's wrong. But Royal doesn't release any of that on me, keeping it carefully pinned under his frenzy as he slides his tongue up my belly and then rests an arm above my head.
We stare at each other as he undoes his pants with the opposite hand and then mounts me with one, long, hard thrust.
I see stars as Royal fucks me into the mattress, pinning me there with his gaze and the words that are written all over his face, etched into every hard muscle, hidden in the swirling colors of his tattoos. You're mine, but I can't have you. You're mine, but you betrayed me. You're mine, but this will never happen again. You're mine. You're mine. Mine.
I throw my arms around his neck and bite down on his shoulder as the pressure becomes too much, the feeling of fullness almost an ache as I wait for that sweet, horrible release that'll tell us both that this is it, we're done, it's over.
Royal grunts a few more times, spilling himself inside of me even though he shouldn't because we haven't had any of the adult conversations we should've had yet. That's our relationship right there in a single word. Irresponsible. Or stupid. Or reckless. Dangerous, painful, brief, raw, new, intense, untried, broken, battered.