The warmth inside me was undeniable, and so I pressed down on him, not wanting him to pull away. I squeezed, and he moaned, still hard, his movements slight, his lips finding mine, mouths open, tongues clashing, heat rising, and then his movements started again, his cock jamming deeper as I relaxed around him, my cunt—yes, my cunt because I wanted it dirty now—I needed him again, over and over again.
I slipped away, eyeing his throbbing cock, a mix of me and him making his skin gleam, and moved to all fours, ass facing him, wiggling just a bit, a enough to say come and get it and he did, crawling behind me, his soak cock sliding in easily as I focused ahead, looking at the moon through the kitchen window as he fucked me, his hands grabbing my hips, painful at first, but then, then he slowed, his hand finding my hair, my head pulled back, my eyes staring a the ceiling, the cock inside me spurting again, an act soimpossible that I closed me eyes and let him fill me, overflowing, and then, yes he wanted more, his finger pressed into my ass, the pain existential, but fleeting after a few moments.
I came again, a subtle thing, but shivers nonetheless as I collapsed, his still hard cock mine, mine for an eternity, I believed. He lay next to be, all blood, sweat, rain, and something strangely animal-like.
“You okay?” he asked.
Of course I wasn’t fucking okay. How long had it been since I’d had sex with a man who actually fucking cared? I was so fucking confused that I could only stare speechless into his eyes. “I’m fabulous,” I finally said.
He stroked my hair, and I let him.
For the first time in my life, I felt real. Not a runaway. Not Cutler’s kid or a bargaining chip or a piece of bad club history.
Just Melissa. Just me.
12
Melissa
Iwoke naked under the blanket, my skin sticky and tacky in places that used to mean shame, but now just felt like proof. The only light came from the gray wash of dawn creeping in through a cracked window, illuminating the disaster we’d made of the living room: whiskey bottles, bloodied paper towels, a trail of clothing like the world’s saddest breadcrumb path.
Augustine sat across the room, hunched on the edge of the plastic couch, shirtless and looking even leaner than usual. He’d re-wrapped his ribs with something white and elastic, but the bruise beneath had turned a sickly purple, spreading like mold up his side. For the first time, he looked less like a monster and more like a real, breakableman—a man built of nothing but anger, sinew, and regret. His face was turned toward the window, but I could feel him watching me in the glass reflection, one eye tracking every move I made.
My body ached in a way that felt holy, every nerve ending humming. It was like I’d been sanded down to the quick and then rebuilt, scar tissue and all. I could still feel the marks of his hands on my hips, the imprint of his teeth in my shoulder, the way he’d held me at the end, not possessive but desperate, like I was the last piece holding him together. That should have terrified me. Instead, it made me want to go to him again.
I climbed out from under the blanket, letting the chill bite at my skin, and crossed the floor without bothering to cover up. The boards were rough and splintery under my bare feet, and every step drove the point home. I was here. I was real. I was not going back to the sad, helpless animal who’d run through the woods last night, scraping up her own knees just to feel in control of something.
Augustine didn’t say anything as I approached. His knuckles were white around the coffee mug, but the way he looked at me—up, down, slow, deliberate—set my pulse racing. The air between us got thicker with every inch, until I was standing right over him, close enough tosmell the whiskey on his breath and the coppery tang of old blood.
“You’re beautiful, Mel,” he said.
I said nothing because the want was too great. The need brought silence.
I didn’t ask permission. I just straddled his lap, folding myself into the V of his thighs, my knees bracketing his hips. The blanket slid off my back, pooling around my ankles. I pressed my chest to his, feeling the heat radiate from his skin in waves, and slid my hands up his arms, over the network of scars, up to the line of his jaw. There was a hesitation—a moment where I felt him brace, as if he expected me to hit or slap or scream. Instead, I kissed him, slow at first, then with the kind of hunger that makes people write bad poetry or crash cars on purpose.
He let the mug drop, the ceramic shattering on the floor and splashing cold coffee across our feet. His hands went to my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, but I wanted that. I craved the pain, the bruises that would bloom later as proof that I had not just survived, but claimed something. He kissed back, biting at my lip, his tongue warm and fierce, and in seconds we were grinding against each other, our bodies slipping on sweat and skin oil and whatever else we’d left behind the night before.
I rocked forward, feeling the line of him grow hard between us, and he hissed, either from pain or pleasure. It didn’t matter. I guided him in, not gentle, not slow, just exactly how I wanted it. He gripped my hips, thrusting up to meet me, and the shock of cold against my spine made me clamp down around him, drawing a low, ragged moan from his throat. I’d never had sex like this before—wild and mean, all teeth and nails and the need to be more alive than dead. The old version of me would have been ashamed at the sounds coming out of my mouth, the wet slap of our bodies, the animal way I clawed at his back. But there was no shame now. Just need.
Augustine bucked under me, sweat streaming down his chest in spite of the cold, and wrapped one arm around my waist, pinning me to him. We said nothing because nothing needed to be said. Sometimes words got in the way; actions were much more preferred. I felt the bandage at his ribs rip, the blood beneath seeping fresh, and the knowledge of it made me bite down on his shoulder, hard enough to taste skin. He fucked me like he was punishing himself, every movement a mix of agony and pure, distilled want. His fingers slipped, digging deeper, and I knew there’d be bruises for days.
It didn’t last long. Neither of us needed it to. I came first, the world going bright around the edges, my nailsraking red across his chest. He followed a second later, head thrown back, teeth bared, every muscle straining against the ruin of his own body. The heat between us turned the air steamy, my breath fogging the space between our faces as I slumped forward, draping myself across his chest and letting the cold try and fail to seep back in.
We stayed like that for a long minute, tangled and shaking, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the ping of the busted coffee mug rolling across the floor. Eventually, he eased his grip on my hips, sliding his hands up my back, and I felt the aftershocks chase up my spine, one last little burst before it all went calm.
I looked down at the place where his fingers had pressed into my flesh, already going violet at the edges. Augustine caught me staring and smiled, the kind of smile that looked like it hurt to make.
“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.
I shook my head, grinding down on him one last time before pulling off, the mess of us slick and raw and perfect. I stood, legs wobbly, and scooped the blanket off the floor, wrapping it around both of us. Augustine let me tuck into his lap, his arms folding around my waist, chin digging into my shoulder.
We watched the dawn creep over the trees, the gray light flooding the cabin, turning everything silver and soft.Outside, the world was still trying to kill us. Inside, we’d made our own little hell, but at least it was warm.
We stayed like that, not talking, just breathing in and out, until the sun was high enough to burn through the haze and make the dust on the windows glitter. There’d be trouble soon, a reckoning waiting just outside the door, but for now, I was content to let the world pause, to feel his heart beat under my palm and know it was still going. Still stubborn, still fighting.
My hips would carry his fingerprints for days, maybe weeks.
I didn’t mind at all.
