Wild Dirty Secret(101)

Harsh hands pushed the cloth of my panties aside. Two fingers shoved inside, dry until he added his spit to ease their way.

“Oh God,” I cried. He was more than I’d thought he could be—worse and so much better.

“Take it,” he muttered. “Just once, just now. Just like this.”

Did he think I would refuse him? It was bliss, this pain. Did he think it was too much? It would never be. I wanted him to beat me, to transfer each blow from his body to mine so that my scars matched his, inside and out.

“Let me see it,” I begged. The real him, the real me. “Let me feel it.”

He knew exactly what I meant, and he was far enough gone to give it to me. His palm landed on my cheek, a slap too light to be cruel, the force of it turning my face to the floor. I groaned at the sting, at the relief. “More,” I whispered.

“No. That’s enough.” But the words weren’t meant to protect me or to soothe me. They were a denial. He wanted me to beg.

“Luke, Luke.” I was helpless for anything more coherent.

“Shelly,” he answered me, mournful. “I never wanted this for you.”

“Me neither,” I whispered, not knowing whether we were talking about me or him, but it didn’t matter anyway. We couldn’t change the past, only live in the present. We couldn’t heal the hurts; only fill the hollows of memory with the jolt of my hips as he yanked me closer, with the softening of my body as I let him. His force and my acceptance, they were a bargain between us, a language we both understood.

The rasp of his zipper met my ears, and then he was pushing, pulsing, already inside me before I realized we didn’t have a condom. I clenched around a warm length, rippled against velvety skin, no barriers between us, but that didn’t matter now, couldn’t matter here in the aftermath of torture, at the fringes of death. I wanted to be taken over, to be ripped and torn to shreds by him, and I was. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t do anything but writhe and moan and coat his cock with the fluid I had denied him before.

Tilting my hips, I let him in deeper. It hurt that way. It pressed and pushed and stabbed that way, but it was the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure I felt spreading like a fever over my body. I was going to come; it had already started, like the first gentle curve on the horizon. It grew closer to the shore, gathering strength until it was a wave crashing over me and I gasped for breath at the surface. He never stopped, never slowed his thrusts.

I fought for air, for acknowledgment, pounding on his chest with my fists. He grunted in pain but didn’t relent. He trapped my arms, holding his weight on the soft inner flesh. It was agony, and my body wrenched in response, but none of it could compare to the pain he must have felt. With those bruises, those injuries, even holding himself up would be torture; even moving inside me, against me would be pain. We rocked in it, reveled in it like hedonists who had just discovered that pain spilled over became pleasure.

My hips rode the air, reaching up for his. He slammed me back down on each thrust, an ache reverberating through my limbs.

I couldn’t find an end or a beginning. “Help me.”

“Stop?”

“More, more.”

He released my arms and reared back. He wrapped both his hands around my neck, not squeezing or pressing. Just holding me there by my most vulnerable place. It felt like worship.

With the slightest constriction, I felt the flesh of his palm as I breathed, as I swallowed. Like a dam torn apart, tears ran down my cheeks. Heartbroken. My heart was breaking for him.

He didn’t want my pity. I gave him something else, everything else. I sobbed out a release, his every entry brought a new surge of heat, relaxing as the last of the pleasure lapped at my heels. When I had finished, he covered me with his body, filling me until it was too much before letting me breathe once again. Each thrust was marked by a small expulsion of air. Ah, ah, ah. And it drew out, melting together into a masculine sound, the horizon between power and helplessness.

He collapsed on top of me, a slippery weight of sweat and sex and probably blood from one of us, maybe both. It was the cleanest I had ever felt, not marred by shame or misuse. The oils of his body were like a baptism, washing away my sins and leaving me reborn. He panted there, shudders gripping his body as he caught his breath. His stillness worried me. Don’t let him regret this. Don’t let him withdraw.

“Hell,” he said, rolling off me.

I followed, tucking my body against his, heedful of the jagged cut that ran wetly along his side and the matching one on my leg.

In the aftermath, cold settled over us by degrees. With it came dread, that he would forget or go back to the old way.