“Come back! Come back now!”
“No!”
“Red!”
“That’s not how it fucking works!”
“Red!” I shout again. “Red!”
He lets out a wordless shout and comes flying up the stairs. His boots clang aggressively and he storms across the platform to the head of the bed. He grabs my jaw.
“I’m angry with you!” he snarls in my face.
“Then fuck me!”
Andre lets go roughly and starts pacing the platform, back and forth in the small space. When he rips off his shirt, my eyes close in relief.
As each piece of clothing comes off, as the weapons drop heavily to the floor, I writhe on the bed. I deserve his anger. I want him to give it to me.
When he’s naked, the lines of his body softly limned by the distant light, his hard cock jutting out, he comes to the side of the bed. He yanks open a drawer of the nightstand. He gets onto the bed with a bottle of lube. He slicks his cock. He’s rough and impatient.
He grabs me and flips me, making my arms cross in the restrains. He yanks my hips up and forces my legs apart. His fingers prod at my hole, forcing lube into me. I whine and pant as his rough handling centers me. It calms me. It’s what I want. It’s what I need. Because …
Because I’m still scared. Of what I did tonight. Of what I almost lost. Myself. Him. He’s right. And I need him to help me. I need him to take me out of myself for a second so I can calm down, so I can let go of the fear.
I focus on my breathing as his cock pushes against my hole. I cry out as he forces his way inside, opening me an inch at a time. It burns. It hurts. It’s supposed to.
But when he’s all the way in, he stops. I’m panting and shaking.
“Is this what you want?” he growls, but I have no words.
He pulls out and slaps my ass. I cry out at the sudden, awful emptiness.
“Answer me!”
“Yes!” I shout.
He forces his way back in, still too slow, still too careful.
“Fuck me!”
He smashes my head down and gives me what I want. I moan and push back against him. He pulls my hips up harder, forces me to arch. He hits my prostate with ruthless precision, pounding until I fly out of myself. I scream and thrash under him as I come.
He’s not even close. He just keeps fucking me through it until I’m moaning and hard again.
But he stops, still buried inside me. His breathing is harsh. He’s trembling.
“This … isn’t what I want,” he rasps. “This isn’t what I fucking want.”
I cry out when he pulls out of me. Fear surges up, but he doesn’t leave. He flips me over onto my back. He crawls up my body and releases my wrists—then he wraps his arms around me and buries his face against my neck.
My emotions trip and tumble. Then they crash so hard that I throw my arms around him and start crying.
It’s a different kind of release, scarier but more necessary. More vulnerable.
When I’m able, when I’m calm, I tell him, “I’m sorry.”
“You scared me,” he whispers against my neck. “You fuckingscaredme.”
