I remember every fucking detail. I remember thinking my life was complete because she was finally kissing me. I remember thinking I could save us, that if I just braked hard enough, if I just steered the right way, I could keep her safe. I remember the whiplash crack of her skull on the glass, and the sight of her blood already soaking her dress by the time the world stopped spinning.
I remember holding her when she stopped breathing, my own hands slick with her blood.
I remember thinking that I'd rather die right there than lose her.
But I didn't die. She didn't, either. Not all the way.
The girl I loved stopped breathing for three minutes and came back different. She came back a shadow of herself. AndIkept making her different, every fucking time I gave her a reason to hate me, every time I hurt her, every time I destroyed something in her life. Making myself so monstrous that she forgot she everloved me at all was the only way I could survive the goddamn guilt.
I try to say something, but the words get stuck. My throat feels like it's closing, the panic of memory choking me even as I sit here, alive, whole, able to fuck her whenever I please.
She notices, because of course she does. "Asher?" she whispers, softer now. "Are you okay?"
I can't answer. I don't want to lie to her, but I'm not going to tell her the truth, either. I can't ever do that. I want to slam my head into the fucking bulkhead, just to see if I can finally bash the memories out.
She slides off my lap and kneels between my legs with her hands on my knees. I flinch, but she doesn't move away. She just looks up at me, her green eyes too clear, too bright, too much.
"You're not the only one who remembers," she says. "I remember, too. It haunts me, too. I never forgave myself, either."
She takes my hand and brings it to her face. I try to pull away, but she holds on. She presses my palm to her cheek, closing her eyes.
For a second, I let myself feel her—the warmth of her skin, the way her cheekbones rise under my fingertips. The urge to hurt her is almost as strong as the urge to hold her. Hurting her is the only way she's ever learned to protect herself from me. She needs that. Christ, maybe she needs it now more than ever.
I let my thumb brush her lower lip, just to feel the softness. Just to remind myself that she's here right now and she's mine.
She leans into my hand. "Use me," she says, her voice a rasp. "Whatever you're feeling—give it to me. I can take it."
I want to say no, but the word doesn't exist between us. I want to break her, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain that's eating me alive. I want to see her face when I ruin her for good. Maybe that little kernel of hope—the one that constantlywhispers what if—will finally die then. Maybe she'll finally hate me hard enough for it to stick.
But…not yet. Christ, not yet. I can't let her go yet.
I thrust my hand into her hair, yanking her back onto my lap. She gasps, but there's no fear in it, just anticipation. Her legs straddle me, her hands finding my chest, clawing at the buttons until they come undone.
"You want this?" I growl. "You want me to fuck the memories out of you?"
She nods, biting her lip. "Yes. Please."
I haul her closer, crushing her body to mine. I grind my cock against her and watch her shiver. I want to rip her dress off, shred it until there's nothing left but her bare skin and the heat of her against me.
Instead, I hike it up, exposing her thighs, the bare curve of her ass. I fumble with my zipper, pull my cock out, and line it up with her pussy. She's still soaked from her orgasm a few minutes ago, her heat searing my shaft.
The friction is enough to make me lose my fucking mind.
She grabs my shoulders, holding on as I thrust into her, all at once. She's so tight I see stars, but I don't let up. I set a brutal pace, pounding into her as if I can fuck away the memory of her scream, the sight of her bleeding, the terror that I'll lose her again if I blink.
She moans, the sound sharp and desperate. I slap my hand over her mouth, muffling the noise so no one hears her, but she just arches into me, taking every inch, every savage thrust.
The plane isn't silent. The engines drone, the silverware from dinner rattles on the table, but all I hear is her. Her gasps, her cries, the wet slap of skin on skin.
I dig my fingers into her hips, leaving bruises. She claws at my chest in response, leaving red lines. I want to mark her everywhere, so she never forgets who she belongs to.
I want her tighter.
I want her mindless.
I want her to forget she hates me.
I reach behind, using her arousal to wet two fingers, and then press them against her asshole. She freezes at the pressure, shock and pain carving lines across her forehead, but I don't let up. I push past her resistance, twisting my fingers until the tight ring of her ass yields and she's split wide around me.
