I listen to her breathe, syncing my lungs to hers, slowing my heart until it almost feels normal. My hand hovers over her hip, not touching. I could reach out. I could take, the way I always have. But I wait.
It’s the only way to know if I want her, or if I just want to break something.
Minutes pass. Or hours. She shifts in her sleep, shoulders twitching, her head rolling to the side. She senses me, even unconscious. Her body relaxes a little, tension leaking out of her spine, and she sags back against me.
That’s permission enough.
I slip my arm around her waist and pull her in, flush to my chest. Her ass settles into my hips, and even half-dead, I’m hard in seconds. I bury my nose in her hair, breathe in the mix of sweat and soap and cheap detergent.
She sighs. Not awake, but not asleep anymore. I feel her pulse under my palm, the way her stomach tenses when I splay my fingers wide. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to get away. She just breathes.
I keep my hand still, not pushing, not taking more than she gives. I let her decide.
After a while, she turns. Slow, careful, eyes never opening. She rolls to her back, then to her other side, facing me. Her hand finds my wrist and holds it, not hard. Just there.
I wait.
Her eyes open, green in the darkness, pupils blown wide. She doesn’t say my name, doesn’t ask how I got in. She just watches me, expression unreadable.
Then she leans in, and kisses me.
It’s not like any of the other times. It’s slow, almost lazy, her lips soft and cold. I let her set the pace. I let her take whatever she wants from me.
Her hand goes to my neck, fingers trailing up behind my ear. She traces the line of my jaw, my cheekbone, like she’s memorizing it.
I kiss her back, but not hard. Not yet.
When she pulls away, she’s breathing faster. Her face is close, so close, I could count her lashes if I wanted. She blinks, once, slow.
“Make me forget,” she whispers.
I nod.
She tugs the hem of her shirt up, slow and deliberate. I help her, pulling it off and tossing it somewhere to the floor. Underneath, she’s naked. Her skin is pale, marked with the pink tracks of old scars and fresh bruises.
I want to say sorry, but the words feel cheap. Instead, I kiss her again, harder now, my hands running over every inch of exposed skin. I feel her shiver, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her hands work at my shirt, dragging it up and off. She runs her fingers over my chest, then my arms, stopping at the split knuckles. She brings my hand to her mouth and kisses each one, slow and careful.
She presses her forehead to mine. I can feel her breathing me in, can feel her pulse beating against mine. Then her fingers are working my jeans, pushing them down my hips while I wrestle them off my legs along with my boxers.
We move together, slow at first, then faster. I grip her hip, her thigh, her ass, and pull her up so she’s straddling me. She sinks down, taking me in all at once. I want to be gentle, I do. But she rides me hard, like she’s punishing both of us for everything we’ve been through.
The mattress squeaks, the headboard thuds the wall. She leans forward, hair falling around us, and bites my shoulder. I groan, and grab her tighter.
Her hands are everywhere, my face, my neck, my chest. She drags her nails down my sides, leaving thin red lines in their wake.
I thrust up, matching her rhythm, matching her anger. Every time she gasps, I do it harder.
We fuck like animals, but when she comes, it’s not a scream, it’s a sob.
She collapses against me, sweating and shaking. I hold her, bury my face in her hair, and don’t let go.
After, we lie in silence. The room is dark except for the orange glow from the streetlight.
She curls into my side, one leg over mine, her hand on my chest. I cover her hand with mine.
Neither of us says anything.
