He’s stillinside me when it happens.
The last pulse of my orgasm is still fluttering around him, my body stretched and trembling beneath his, when I cough. Just a little—just enough to clear my throat.
But it’s not air that comes out.
It’s blood.
A hot, wet spray splashes over his chest, bright red against his skin. Droplets scatter across his collarbone, his throat, even his cheek.
For a second, I don’t even register it. My brain is still humming from release, still melted around the feel of him inside me, heavy and perfect.
Leo freezes. Entirely. Every muscle in him goes tight. His eyes go wide, staring down at me like he’s just witnessed a homicide.
“Tori!” His voice breaks. “What the hell—are you—oh my God, are you okay? Do you need a doctor? Do I call an ambulance?”
I try to answer, but the words slur around my swollen tongue.
“Bithh my tonghhehh.”
Which, of course, sprays even more blood across his chest.
He flinches but doesn’t move away, gripping my face, trying to peer into my mouth while I’m choking on laughter.
“Baby, you have to stop giggling. Tori, I’m serious—are you choking? Are you bleeding out? Tell me if you’re dying right now!”
“Not—dyin’thhh,” I manage, but the garbled mess only shoots another mist across his jaw.
Leo bolts off the bed, scanning the room like a man possessed.
“Fuck, fuck, towel—where the hell?—”
He flings open the closet. Nothing. Yanks a drawer. Socks.
“Goddammit!” He snatches the nearest pillow, tears the case off in one hard pull, and shoves the cotton into my hands.
“Here. Press it. Press it hard.”
I sit up and do as I’m told, pressing the pillowcase to my mouth. Blood blooms instantly, soaking it dark.
My head starts bopping back and forth before I even realize it—Whip it!now playing on repeat in my brain like a bad jukebox.
Maybe I really am losing too much blood.
“What’s happening? Are you having a seizure?!” Leo’s back on the bed in an instant, hovering close, eyes wild.
I shake my head, laughing into the pillowcase, still jamming to the music in my head.
“Whip it!” I try to say, but it comes out muffled, garbled, and bloody. His expression goes from panic to sheer horror.
I decide the explanation isn’t worth his anxiety, so I stop my dance and shrug.
Leo watches me for a beat longer, eyeing me like I might start convulsing at any second.
When he’s convinced I am not, in fact, seizing, he mutters, “Fucking hell, woman…” and steadies his breath.
Then, a few moments later: “Let me see. Maybe it’s slowed down a bit.”
He peels the fabric back just enough to check the damage.
