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I drop the rubber back in the drawer and hand him the lube.
He uses his fingers first, and he’s slow and careful, heeding my warnings that it’s been a while. He’s quiet while I tell him what to do, no doubt listening for any sounds of discomfort from me. There is pain, but it’s negligible. There is burning as I’m stretched, but I welcome it. He kisses the base of my spine and adds another finger when I tell him to. He kisses my back again when I start to shake at his intrusion.
It’s enough.
He props me up on my knees when I tell him I’m ready, that it needs to be now. There’s a moment when he pushes himself in when I think it’s going to be too much, I’m not going to be able to take him, and I grit my teeth. But I crash through that ceiling, and when his hips are pressed against my ass, there is no more pain. There is only him rising above me, beginning to move back and forth. He’s grunting, holding me at my shoulders, grazing my neck with his fingers. I cry out at a particularly deep thrust and he leans on top of me, his face in my hair, his breath on my neck, and I’m reminded of the days when I felt that breath alone in Little House. Those days of coming home to nothing but memories like ghosts, drowning in a river I couldn’t see. I can remember those feelings, but even after this short amount of time, it’s like peering at them through a murky haze.
But he’s here now, with me. He wraps his arms around my chest and pulls me back up onto my knees, my back against his sweaty chest, forcing me to sit in his lap. He rolls his hips underneath me, and I turn my face until my lips find his.
As he rises and falls beneath me, one arm around my chest to hold me to him, the other starting to jerk me off, I close my eyes and lean my head back against his shoulder. There in the dark, I see the blue, I feel the blue, and it’s overwhelming and it’s huge and it’s overtaking me. I can’t handle it anymore and spill over onto his hand. He feels this and hears my cries and snaps his hips once then twice, and then there is warmth erupting in me and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. His groan becomes a whine in my ear and I tremble against him.
I can feel it, then. His heartbeat. It’s strong as it pounds inside his chest. This causes my eyes to burn and I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s unexpected. Maybe because it makes him more human. He was alive before, but now I know he’s alive. He takes a deep breath behind me and then lets it out.
As we collapse on the bed, him still lying atop and inside me, pressing his lips against the back of my neck, I have a moment to think that things aren’t changing…. No. It’s not like that at all.
As he wraps a big, gentle hand around my throat, finding my lips again, I realize that everything has already changed completely and I can’t go back to the way things were. Not after this night. Not after knowing what this could be like.
The angel Calliel kisses me again, and I begin to think about the future. About the possibilities that lie ahead. About the fact I no longer seem to be alone, because I know he will choose to stay. We’ll continue as we are now and things will be better than they were. I think these things. I think of these things and more.
But….
Even as he gives a contented sigh in my ear, even as I pull him closer, isn’t there something at the forefront of my mind? Something aside from the postcoital glow, aside from my wishes for the future and my hopes of the present. Things have changed, oh yes. Make no mistake about that. But that’s the funny thing about grief and anger combined; even while buried in newfound happiness, it claws and it whispers. It begs. It howls.
It screams.
It doesn’t let go. And it demands retribution.
cross your heart hope to die
I am surprised, when I finally pull myself out from under Cal to get something to
clean us up with, to find it’s not even ten o’clock at night. It feels like days have gone by, the violence in the store this morning a distant memory. It could be the postfuck glow, or it could just be everything piled on top of everything else. I don’t know.
I need to talk to Abe tomorrow, though for the life of me, I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. The truth seems like a good place to start, but since I’m not completely sure of the full truth, I don’t want to end up making this worse.
I just need to figure out what to say to him.
But first, I need to figure out what to say to myself.
Always with the damn questions, I can hear Cal growl already.
No. I have to push through it.
I clean myself in the bathroom, a pleasant ache in my ass that I haven’t felt in a
long time. I look at myself in the mirror and try to see if I’ve changed outwardly to match the hurricane on my insides. I can’t tell. I still look like me. I look closer. There’s a small, dark bruise above my clavicle on the right side of my throat. I touch it, and it burns slightly. Cal likes to mark, it seems. There are red marks on my hips that stretch toward my back. His handprints, from digging into my skin, holding me to him as he thrust into me. They are fading already, but each finger is still clearly outlined against my pale flesh.
Changes, even on the outside.
I take a wet cloth out to the bedroom, light from the bathroom spilling out. My mouth goes dry and I almost stumble at the sight. Cal nude, stretched out on my bed, his white skin almost glowing in the dark. He has his arms folded up behind his head, the hair under his arms as dark red as the curls on his chest. His chest and stomach rise slowly with shallow breath. His dick lays spent against a thatch of pubic hair. He has long, hairy legs, muscled and relaxed. For a moment, I wonder i
f he’s posing and I want to scold him again about vanity, but I can’t seem to make any words come out.
I reach him to find his gaze on me, watching every step I’m taking, my every movement. There’s a low huff of air as I clean him off, the remnants of spunk caught in the red trail on his stomach, the muscles there clenching. I let my gaze trail up his body, and once he’s sure I’m looking at him again, he flexes his arms behind his head. I still my hand on his stomach.
“You like that I’m big,” he says knowingly, his grin all teeth.
“Vanity,” I accuse him weakly. I drop the cloth on the floor and climb onto the bed, suddenly unsure about where to put my hands, where to lie down. This hesitation only lasts a moment as he reaches up and pulls me down on top of him, pressing my face in his throat, his chin against the top of my head. My dick finds this a wonderfully interesting place to be and stirs, but there are other things on my mind.
