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At which he narrows his eyes and I blurt out, “Can I please kiss you though?”
His jaw clenches again as if in irritation but a second later he lets me do it.
He lets me kiss him and lick his mouth. Lick his jaw and that drop of blood that he had to shed because of me. I know he doesn’t care, I know he wants to hurt because of what he did to me, but I can’t let him take another bite of pain.
Not anymore.
So we’re kissing and licking and touching, sliding against each other.
Until I feel him right there.
Right at my entrance.
I look down and see him in position, those silver studs looking all shiny and wet with his pre-cum, maybe even my own juices that I realize are smeared all over my thighs. My thighs are sprawled and folded at the knees. And since they’re on the bed, I wrap my legs around his tapered waist and settle my hands that were clutching the sheets on his biceps.
“It’s time,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I whisper back.
“I’ll go slow,” he adds, frowning, fresh drops of sweat beading his forehead.
My hand goes up and I swipe those drops off, caressing his skin. “You don’t have to.”
His eyelids flutter closed and he clenches his jaw.
But I think that clench is strangely a sign of relief.
At my touch, my care.
Then, swallowing, he says, “People say it’s better to do it quickly. Like ripping off a band-aid.” He winces as if he knows how that feels, and he probably does from playing soccer all his life. “But after that.”
“Okay.”
“But I…”
“You what?”
“I won’t stop.”
“I know.”
“If it hurts too much.” Still frowning and dripping sweat, he says, “I don’t think I’d be able to.”
And still rubbing his frown away and caressing his forehead, I say, “It’s okay.”
He swallows thickly. “No, you don’t understand. I… I haven’t…”
“You haven’t what?”
His biceps strain. As if from the effort it takes for him to stay up and detached from me. But given that he can carry me up four flights of stairs, I know it’s something else. It’s something more.
“What is it, Ledger?” I ask, my heart clenching in my chest.
“I haven’t done this,” he says, the veins standing up on his neck.
“What?”
“In three years.”
“In th-three years?”
He grunts in response. As if that’s all he had in himself. To give right now.
But I’m sorry to say I want more. I demand more.
“What do you mean,” I ask urgently. “That you haven’t done this in three years? You haven’t had sex in three years?”
His chest shakes with his breath and all he manages to say, his words slurred, “Didn’t think I deserved any pleasure,” a breath puffs out of him, his dick lurching against my pussy, dripping pre-cum, “after how I kept treating you.”
I shudder then.
My chest heaving, my belly hollowing out.
My thighs tightening around him.
“Do it,” I tell him.
Not the most beautiful and dressed up words. Especially after what he told me. After what he’s just revealed. The mind-boggling answer to all the questions I’ve had about whether or not he’d been with other girls. When I was running after him.
And honestly all of that seems so trivial now.
So petty and small.
In the face of this.
Him.
Hovering over me, barely able to hold on, shaking with need.
I writhe my hips under him, rubbing my pussy against his dick. “Put it inside me. It’s because of me, isn’t it, that you waited. It’s because of me that you hurt yourself. And I know it couldn’t have been easy. Not the pain but also the waiting. Especially since I kept throwing myself at you back then. How I wore all those tight dresses without any care, without any thought about you. I’d flaunt my tits, my ass, making you angry and horny. And today I wore red and tortured you the whole way here. Because it doesn’t just provoke the bull, does it? It provokes you too. So do it. Fuck me. Now.”
His nostrils flare.
His jaw clenches.
And with a growl and one powerful thrust of his hips, he does it.
He tears his way in. Forces and rips and lodges himself inside of me.
And I scream, throwing my head back, my body feeling like it’s been set on fire.
I know I bleed as well.
There’s no question about it.
I can feel it.
I can feel his dick — all thick and hard, studded with bars — puncturing my soft and slick and tight flesh, bruising it. And somehow setting it free in the same breath. Making me somehow gush blood and my cum in the same breath too.
Because nothing has ever been more painful and more beautiful than this.
Than his forced invasion.
It’s strange, pain and beauty going together, but maybe not really. Nothing beautiful is ever made without enduring some pain first, isn’t it? Whether it be the making of a star or a diamond. Whether it be birth of a new life or death of a girl’s innocence.
