Mika’s words are ringing increasingly true.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
I don’t think Icando anything.
I’m powerless.
All the false bravado I’ve held onto in my life, the rage disguised as courage, the bitterness eating away at my insides, the pain of never connecting, it’s all peeled away and my true, weak self is exposed.
Samick sees it.
Sees her.
The pathetic, ashamed me; the one who doesn’t want to be looked after, but needs it; the one who lashes out at anyone who gets too close, because the closer they get, the better they can hurt her.
He sees her, weak and powerless.
And he devours her, like the monster he is.
I wish tears would at least come. Like I can be less ashamed of the moan whispering out of me, if I’m at least weeping.
But his fingers slide out of me, and no tears come.
Only hunger.
I lean closer to him, as though I can chase his hand, the pleasure, and get more of it.
Samick’s smile is faint against my cheek.
His bite softens—then he’s grabbing the waistband of my trousers and tugging them down.
Not all the way.
Just halfway down my thighs.
Just enough to expose me.
He peels the strip of my underwear to the side—and in a blur, that fucking frost, that icy shuddering movement of his, like I blink, and there’s a glimpse of a blizzard, and then I’m suddenly up against the tree, my knees pressed together, legs slung over just one of his hips…
And he’s pushing into me.
I come down on his length, slowly, carefully, and he controls it, inch after inch, his hand firm on my waist. So firm that I feel the promise of bruises on my skin.
But the shame doesn’t come.
In darkness, in our filthy shameful secret, I am his puppet.
My head lolls back against the tree, a tight breath trapped in my throat, feeling him fill me, stretch my walls, feeling him curve over me, his breath cascading over the tip of my nose.
And I feel small.
Too small.
Too weak.
Too out of control.
My wetness drips down him.
