It was war, and we needed it.
He ripped my shirt at the collarbone, exposing a patch of skin just to inflict a new wound with his teeth. I wrested my arms free, raked my nails down the side of his neck, satisfied by the blooming red trails.
He pinned my thigh with his knee, ground his hips against me, and my body responded in a way that made me want to rip my own heart out.
I caught him with a knee to the ribs. He grunted, then retaliated by gripping both my wrists above my head, slamming them to the floor so hard I thought my bones would crack.
I writhed, bucked, spat curses, but he only tightened his hold, his face inches above mine, breaths fusing in a hot, angry fog.
“You want to hate me so bad, don’t you?” His words were wet and ragged. “You want me to be the monster. Fine.”
He bit down on my earlobe, hard enough to draw a shriek, and I twisted my hands until the skin tore at my wrists.
With a growl, he let go, yanking my hips up to meet his. We were pressed together. His sweatpants scraping against my bare skin, every point of contact a new place to fight, a new place to burn.
“Fuck you,” I snarled.
He let go with a laugh, but it was the kind of laugh that sounded like a skull cracking. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered, grinding his hips into me. His breath was hot and bitter at my ear, teeth sharp on the curve of my jaw. “I bet you’re fucking wet for me right now.”
The words scraped my skull raw, searing through the last of my resistance.
Hatred pooled between my legs. Of course he could feel it; of course he would use it to humiliate me, to win.
Rage and arousal tangled, a noose tightening at the base of my spine.
“You’re disgusting,” I gasped, jerking my head away, but his grip held, the pain chaining me to this moment.
He knelt over me, chest heaving, and shoved his hand between my legs, fingers pushing past the waistband of my shorts. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate, just pressed in, fingers grazing my most private area.
My breath snapped into fragments. I gasped, and he laughed, low and guttural.
“You see?” He whispered, nose brushing the curve of my jaw, his breath sour. “You fucking love this. You love when I break you.”
The line between hate and want was a razor’s edge, and I balanced atop it, desperate not to fall but already slipping.
I wanted obliteration. I wanted to be gutted and left to rot, because maybe then I’d feel something other than the endless, echoing ache.
But, I hated him so much that my ribs ached, that my lungs starved for air. And that hate burned almost as bright as this hollowness within.
I’m doing this for you, Lillian. I want to break him, for you. To hurt him, for you.
In some parallel universe, this was an erotic movie scene, two beautiful people burning with forbidden passion; in this one, it was two rabid dogs locked together in a death roll, desperate to devour and outlast the other.
Shame spiraled through me, but it only fed the hunger. Hunger to feel something other than this bottomless grief.
I bucked my hips, nearly throwing him off. For a split second he lost his grip. I seized the chance and brought my knee up, catching him in the thigh.
He swore, tried to pin me again, but I rolled us, straddling his chest, hands braced on his shoulders.
Our faces hovered an inch apart. Neither of us would back down; neither ofus wanted to.
My nails dug into his collarbones, his fingers bruised my waist. His eyes flickered wild, desperate.
I could see myself reflected there. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips split. I looked like prey. I looked like a monster.
His hands found my hair, yanked it so hard my scalp burned, and I gasped into his mouth, hating the sound, hating my body for turning against me.
Hate was better than sorrow. Hate was heat and movement.
