His mouth moves lower, closing over my breast and sucking my nipple to a sensitive point through the shirt. His hand is still pressing hard on my clit.
I think I’m going to come.
I’ll never fucking forgive myself if I do.
“Curse!” I scream his name as hateful pleasure writhes and throbs. “Curse, stop!”
I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do. I get my hand against his face and shove as hard as I can. My palm connects with his nose. “Stop!”
Curse rears back.
My palm is slick and wet. Light from the bedside lamp floods the room. Blood pours from Curse’s nose. It’s all over my hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t know how to…How to stop…”
Didn’t know how to stop him.
Didn’t know how to stop myself.
Curse doesn’t bother doing anything to staunch the crimson flowing from his nose. He prods mercilessly at the bridge of it, sending more blood gushing out.
“It’s not broken,” he says flatly, dropping his hand. “You don’t need to cry about it.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d started crying. But now that I’m aware of it, I can’t stop it. Instead of silent tears slipping down my cheeks, I’m suddenly weeping so hard that I can barely breathe.
“Jesus, Aurora,” he hisses. “Fuck.”
“I’m fine. Sorry,” I gasp between sobs. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to touch me if he doesn’t want to. But all I manage to force out is a raggedly screeched, “Don’t touch me!”
He takes it to heart. Not only does he not touch me, he doesn’t even stay beside me. He unlocks the handcuffs and storms from the room.
I don’t think he’s coming back.
But less than a minute later, he does.
“What are you doing?” I cry.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, swiping savagely at his face with a white hand towel. Well, it used to be white. Now it’s stained bright red. “I’m cleaning myself up so I don’t get my fucking blood all over you.”
It’s a little late for that. I look at my own bloodied palm and sob even harder.
“I can’t…Can’t stop!”
Can’t stop. Can’t breathe.
With dawning terror, I think that I might go on crying forever. I hear the sounds I’m making as if I am outside myself. The wretched, rapid screams.
Curse says something to me, but I don’t hear it. He says it louder, then must give up on talking to me. Because I’m suddenly lifted into the air.
No. I’m lifted into his arms.
I have no sense of what he’s doing or where we’re going until the frigid water hits me. The shock of it stalls my stuttering brain. It gives me just enough time to suck in a lungful of air and get my bearings.
Curse is standing in his shirt and boxers beneath the showerhead as it rains freezing water down upon us both. He’s cradling me against his chest, his gaze furious as he stares at the wall ahead.
I want to touch his cheek. To bring his gaze back down to me.
But I don’t dare to do it.
