Another spasm of lightning.Another monochromatic slice of him in the room, all scorching edges, burned into my brain like a film negative.Another symphonic boom of thunder.
“I hadn’t planned on waiting,” he replies.I’m not entirely certain, but I think I can feel his fingers touching the ends of my hair.“But if you need more time to heal,” he continues, “then I will.”
It’s a small mercy.One I wouldn’t have expected from him, in all honesty.But he isn’t gentle at the best of times.And if he’s not capable of that sort of physical control, maybe he wants me to be as ready for the onslaught as possible.
But I don’t want to wait.I don’t want healing.I don’t even know if such a thing is even possible for me anymore.
I want pain.I want to tear in two.
I want him.
“I don’t need more time,” I whisper.My hands drift down, and my stomach flips madly when I find him already hard beneath his sweatpants.I stop, though, waiting for any sign that he doesn’t want this.That I shouldn’t be touching him here.
None comes.
But he doesn’t urge me on, either.Doesn’t give me a single word of encouragement.And the thought of touching someone this way when they don’t want it, even if their body is responding, is so abhorrent that hot tears bite at the backs of my eyes.
“Is this alright?”I choke out.
“Nothing,” he says over my head like smoke, “since Sicily has been alright.”
I understand.It makes sense.In Sicily, he still had his mamma.His life was recognizable and good.He was a child who smiled easily, laughed at jokes in a language I couldn’t understand.Who befriended me like it took no more effort than breathing.
But then came the fire.
And then he was gone.
And all that was left for me was that bed in that room in that house.
Nothing has been alright since Sicily.Not for him.And not for me.
When the tears finally spill over, I’m sure they’re silent.But Curse somehow knows about them anyway.His thumbs slide up my cheeks, collecting the salt on his thumbs.
“My offer from Montreal still stands,” he says gruffly.“You can do everything.Be in control.Be on top.I don’t have to touch you.”
“No,” I say with a sniff.“I want…”
I want him to touch me.I want him towantto touch me.
“I need you to do it.”
He withdraws from me, and I almost cry out in response.But when I hear the sound of a zipper undoing, then rustling, I know what he’s doing.
He’s getting a condom.
My pulse pounds in my chest and between my legs.While waiting for him, I quickly peel away my clothing, until I’m shivering and sightless.The room is abyss without him.
When he returns, the first thing I feel is the whisper of air over my bare legs.Then, the heft of his knee between them.Blindly, I reach for him, my right hand bumping his cock in the process.I hasten to pull my hand away, because he never actually told me it was alright to touch him there, but he seizes on my wrist and pulls it back.
“Right here,” he groans, forcing my fingers around him.“Squeeze me a bit.Fuck.Yes.Like that.”
I do exactly as he says, giddy, nearly fucking delirious, with the way he apparently wants me to touch him.I wrap my fist around him, trying to copy what I saw him doing in the shower earlier, squeezing and stroking.His flesh is a marvel, velvet heat and metal.There’s no condom on him yet, and I swallow a moan as I trace the shape of him in the dark.Without being able to see him, every other sense feels exquisitely heightened.My body thrums, my fingertips rejoice in the swollen line of every vein, every throb and twitch, every bead of moisture I find, then smear, at the molten silk of his tip.I love the feel of him here, and I take extra time to stroke that slick place, my breath hitching at the way his shaft jerks in response.
“Fuck.” He’s suddenly out of my reach.I hear something tear, then become aware of movement.A moment later, he guides my hand back to him.This time, there’s a barrier between his skin and mine, thin and supple, but not the same.Stifling the disappointment I feel – because such an emotion is ridiculous, I’m glad he’s using a condom – I stroke him again.
“Gonna get you good and fucking wet,” he grunts.“This is probably going to be quick.Rough.”
Everything in me gives a glorious throb at the promise of his words.Because I want his roughness, I want the harsh drive of his body into mine.The ache of it all.The pain that binds me to him.
