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Because it was getting painful. To say those things.
It was getting physically impossible to push the words out. They were making me bleed.
They were scraping my tongue, banging against my teeth.
So I needed a break, a pause for a couple of seconds before resuming and doing the right thing.
I open my mouth to continue what I was saying but then I whisper, “Ezra.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why would I do that? Why would I provoke him like this?
And I have provoked him.
Because as soon as I say it, his nostrils flare.
His entire body tightens up over me, thrumming.
And I don’t know why but I say it again. “Ezra.” And this time I keep going, “Ezra. Ezra. Ezra. Ezra. Ez —”
And then I find I can’t anymore.
Because his mouth slams down on mine.
Hard.
Capturing my words, kissing the breath out of me under the moonlight.
Chapter Twenty-Five
This is crazy.
This is insane. This isn’t supposed to happen.
We’re not supposed to do this.
I’m not supposed to do this. I’m not supposed to provoke him further, egg him on like this. I shouldn’t open my mouth quite so much and let him plunder inside. I shouldn’t be giving him my tongue so he can suck on it. God, and I shouldn’t be biting his lip so he bites mine back.
No, I should push him away.
I can’t be giving him mixed signals.
So somehow, somehow, I start to do that. Now that my hands are free — he let my wrists go so he could thrust his long mean fingers in my hair and maneuver my face the way he wants to — I start to tug at his hair. I pull at the messy strands. I scratch the side of his neck. I dig my nails in his shoulders, rake them across his back, along his dense biceps.
I rock under him.
Buck and roll my hips. Twist them.
All in the hope of getting him off me. All in the hope that he’ll stop kissing me and I can tell him to let me go. To take me back.
But what happens is the opposite.
What happens is that he’s groaning and grunting at the sting of my nails. And he’s thrusting back, matching the rhythm of my hips, thrusting and pushing against that place in between my thighs.
That sore and hurt-y place.
And oh gosh, I realize that I’m not wearing any panties.
Which of course I knew; I didn’t have the time to put on any when I ran away.
But what I hadn’t realized or let myself realize until now is that he’s bare as well. At least he’s bare-chested and now my naked pussy is rubbing against his naked and ridged abdomen, painting his skin with my arousal, making it slippery and sticky and all messy. Like he’s always wanted to paint mine with his.
And that’s only making things worse.
It’s arousing me like nothing has ever aroused me before, and instead of trying to get him off of me, I’m only bringing him closer. I’m only kissing him and kissing him back.
Just when I think I’ll run out of air though, he breaks the kiss and I take my chance.
“Let me… g-go,” I tell him as his mouth moves down to my neck. “Let me go, Ledger.”
He doesn’t.
He bears down on me and goes for my freckle.
He sucks on it and sucks on it, definitely leaving his teeth marks.
I pull at his hair again. “Stop kissing me, you asshole. I don’t… I don’t want this. I don’t…”
I have to stop on account of a gasp I emit because he chooses that moment to really dig his teeth into my skin, possibly as a punishment to what I’m saying. And my whole body arches and rocks under him as if electrocuted.
That psycho.
I start slapping him then. His shoulders, his arms, his jaw, whatever I can get my hands on.
And he does it more.
He bites me more and God, why does that feel so good?
Why does everything that he’s doing feel so good?
Every bite, every lick, every suck, every push of his hips is making me crazier and crazier and fucking crazier.
“You can’t tell me what to do. You can’t… Not after you tied me up,” I say, still going at him with my nails. “You f-fucking tied me up. And you left me there. You just left. I was so… s-scared and afraid and so mad. I wanted to hit you. I wanted to punch your face. I wanted… I wanted you… God, I wanted you so much.”
In the midst of my rant, I realize something.
I realize that his bites and hard thrusts have become soothing sucks and gentle rocking. And his growls and grunts have reduced to guttural chants of I’m sorry.
His fingers that were fisting my hair are now cradling my cheeks and oh my God, his lips are moving now. They’re leaving my throat and are making their way up, stopping to suck at my jaw, lick at my skin, and I realize that I’m crying. My tears are streaming down my cheeks and he’s drinking them up, licking them off as he repeats the same thing over and over and over.
