She’s going to come.
“Do it, angel,” I command her viciously, driving myself as deep as I can go.
She’ll take all I have to give her.
The pain. The pleasure. And the terrible violence of their collision.
She smacks a hand over her mouth when she comes, holding back a guttural scream. Tremors wrack her frame. Her pussy clamps down so hard it makes my hips stutter.
But I keep going, keep thrusting, driving right fucking through it. Until I’m fucking unspooling inside her, nerve by unravelling nerve. Head pounding, chest aching, dick throbbing…
I explode into my angel with the force of a gun going off.
Chapter 21
Aurora
As soon as Curse pulls out, I adjust my clothing. But I’m going to need to do more than that. There’s blood and come mixed together, wet and staining me. I don’t want to get it on the nice leather of this bench.
My pussy aches. My muscles are weak.
It felt so good for him to hurt me.
“Do you…need anything?” Curse’s voice is stilted and strained.
“I’ll need a pad from my suitcase.”
He tucks himself back into his pants. I see the rusty streaks along his cock. And it’s a reminder that we didn’t use protection. I know I should be panicking about that right now, but I just can’t seem to make myself too. There’s a blissful numbness spreading through me. Every thought, emotion, and sensation dimmed in the aftermath of the intensity Curse just unleashed upon me.
I’ve never seen him look like that. When he was above me, inside me. His eyes, always so flat and cold, kindled to ferocious life. Burning me.
Curse is getting down my suitcase now. On the floor of the train, he opens it, and I point out the box I want. Peeling apart the carboard at the top, he pulls one pad out and hands it to me.
I take it, scooting gingerly across the bench. Just as I’m standing up and Curse is returning the suitcase to the rack, the door opens and the porter comes back. Or, a porter does, anyway. The other one before must be on break, or maybe there’s been a shift change or something. This one is a younger man. Not as smiley.
When he asks if we want anything, I immediately say, “Water.”
“Two waters,” Curse adds. As the porter busies himself at his little cart, Curse sits down once more. He’s utterly still. Silent. Staring at me as I make my way to the little bathroom in the train car.
There’s not much room in here. It reminds me a bit of an airplane bathroom. Cramped, and lots of shiny metal surfaces. But it’s clean, and there’s hand soap, so I can’t really complain. It’s hard to sit down on the toilet because my quads are shaking so much. But there’s a bar beside the toilet, and by clutching onto that, I manage. I pee, wincing, because it stings. There’s some blood in the toilet, and on the paper when I wipe.
He was right. He wasn’t gentle.
But I don’t think I would have wanted anything else from him in that moment. We aren’t lovers. We aren’t friends. Soon enough, we’ll never have to see each other again.
I want that thought to be empowering. To make me feel brave and strong. Just get through the next little bit and be done with him.
But it doesn’t make me feel like that. It just makes me think about all the ways things could have been different. In a different life. If we were different people.
But we’re not.
I stick the pad onto my underwear, flush, and wash my hands. I take my time, just feeling the warm water running over my skin. I’m not quite ready to go back out there yet. So I remove my sunglasses and wash my face, too. Then I slowly take my hair down, because it’s all messed up now, carefully placing each bobby pin on the side of the tiny sink. I redo my bun three times, until it’s as close to perfect as possible. I fix up my scarf and return my sunglasses to my face. In the end, I spend upwards of fifteen minutes in there. I linger so long I’m somewhat surprised that Curse doesn’t come banging on the door to make sure I haven’t escaped out some tiny hatch or window or something.
But clearly, he isn’t worried. When I go back out to the car, I find him asleep, slumped over against the table, his shoulders rising and falling with slow breaths. One of his arms is bent beneath his dark head, his face turned towards the covered window. The other is stretched a bit awkwardly across the table’s surface, almost like, in sleep, he’s reaching for something. But the only something there is an overturned cup. I guess it was flat water this time, not sparkling. The porter poured it into cups.
Kind of a bad idea, apparently, because my water has spilled over the side of the table and onto the carpet below. Maybe the train’s rocking tipped it over while Curse was asleep. His own cup is upright, but empty.
“No water for me, I guess.”
