Page 52 of Melancholia

“Why?” I gasp.

“Why, what?” He doesn’t stop. Only fucks me on his fingers like he has all day.

“Why do you want this with me?”

With anyone else, the words would feel like a buzzkill. But Amir shifts closer and kisses me again like I’ve asked something special or important.

“You really don’t see it.” That’s all he says for a few minutes until I’m writhing on his hand like I can’t get enough of his fingers. “That’s it,” Amir murmurs. “Take what you need. Come on, my little mortician. Use my hand however you need.” With his other hand on my hip, he encourages me, pulling me to grind against him. My heart races in my chest and I don’t even think about it as I move.

I just move.

My hands come up to find his face, cupping his cheeks in my palms. Dragging him in for a kiss, I cry out as he thrusts into me, and it gives him the upper hand to once more pry open my mouth and kiss me however he wants. His tongue laps against mine, his teeth graze my lower lip, and he presses his fingers into me so deeply that I keen.

“Amir, please, I need—” Honestly, I can’t believe I’m this close. What with taking Lexapro and the occasional chaser of Ativan, I’d resigned myself to an existence of unsatisfying, infrequent orgasms.

Maybe Amir is just above the rules of SSRIs and mortals.

That’s the only explanation I can consider as he kisses me hard, dragging me closer to a release I’m desperate and aching for. When I hear a noise, it takes a few seconds to realize it’s coming from me, that I’m whimpering needy sounds into Amir’s mouth as I rock against his hand buried in my cunt.

“Oh, fuck!” I gasp. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck⁠—”

“So vocal for me.” He crooks his fingers a bit more sharply and I arch again, giving a sound somewhere between a yelp and a keen. “And so responsive. Have you not gotten off in a while, hmm?”

I really, really haven’

The last guy I fucked was back in school, a few weeks before we graduated, then the week of graduation itself.

It was…subpar. If I’m being kind, I could say lackluster. But I’d just wanted to see, after upping my Lexapro for the third time and feeling a bit better about things, if I could still get what I needed out of sex.

Neither time had proved successful for me, though afterwards he told me I was ‘so great’ and ‘so hot.’

Thinking back, those were about the only things he ever said while he was fucking me.

Compared to Teddy from mortician school, Amir is truly something else.

“I don’t⁠—”

“I’m not complaining. How could I ever complain about something like that, hmm?” He kisses me again, then his mouth wanders down my throat as I tilt my head back against the smooth marble. “How could I complain about you being perfect for me?”

He bites down against my throat and thrusts his fingers into me once more. I gasp, my body stiffens, and I close my eyes against the oppressive darkness of the mausoleum.

There’s something about the way my release shudders through me that feels a little different, and suddenly I realize it’s because my hands are now pressed to the engravings on the smooth marble of the crypts, running over letters like I’m reading braille, tracing names while I come around Amir’s fingers.

It should really bother me, but death has always been a comfort instead of a fear.

“Oh, fuck, Amir.” His name tingles on my lips while he fingers me through my orgasm, before finally he slips his fingers free and kisses me again. And again. Until I’m breathless and boneless against the marble.

“Come on.” He’s on his feet before I know what’s happening, and I’m being pulled up as well, though more gently than I would’ve expected.

“What?” I stumble out after him, into the moonlight, finally able to see more than just his silhouette.

Instead of giving me an answer, Amir turns. Out here, in the moonlight, his eyes are dark instead of honey-gold. Shadowed, glimmering, and fixed only on me. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “My perfect doll.”

I can’t help the shudder at the word, and I’m unsure I like how it makes me feel.

“I’m not your doll,” I find myself saying, only for Amir to close the distance between us with his hand on my hip, pulk=ling me against him.

“Aren’t you?” he asks softly. “Because from where I’m standing…” He looks me up and down, his eyes trailing and wandering at his leisure. “You’re my perfect, pretty doll.” Amir’s grip tightens as I shiver, and if anything, he seems to enjoy the feeling of unease that permeates my body. “Not only that.” He lets out a sigh.