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Daphne pinches her lips shut, hooks her fingernails in my shirt, and drags me up and over her body. We both end up on the hospital bed, Daphne scrambling for my pants. She shoves them out of the way, desperate, and it’s good, because I’m also desperate, because I have been desperate for her since the first moment I saw her.
I sink into her heat, and tears fill her eyes. She bites down on my shoulder through my shirt. Every whimper out of her mouth might as well be the word please.
I mean to be conscientious. I really do. But I can’t help fucking her so hard that the bedframe rattles. I fuck her like it’s a homecoming. I fuck her like it’s survival.
She picks up her head to steal a breath, and a moan escapes instead.
“They all heard, little painter.”
“I don’t care,” she whispers. “I love you.”
Daphne makes that sound again. It’s the death of all modesty and propriety. There’s silence in the hallway. I can’t bring myself to care. We’re here together. We both lived. If that’s not happily ever after, I don’t know what is.
