He doesn't slow down for any of it. If anything my noise feeds him, pushes him harder, the sound doing more work on himnow than the words underneath it ever did. He fucks me hard against the wall, his cock dragging against every slick inch of me, and when he finally speaks it's low and filthy against my ear.
"You want to hate me while you take my cock this well,piccola? Go ahead. Hate me. I don't fucking care, as long as you keep taking it."
Somewhere under all of it, something in me is glad. Something in me hates that it's glad. I don't look at either one too closely. I tell myself this is about the fight, about my father, about wanting a man rough enough to make me stop thinking for five minutes. I tell myself it's simple. Wanting this makes me a certain kind of woman and I let myself be angry about that instead of anything underneath it.
It isn't simple. I know it isn't. I just don't say so, not even to myself.
The plaster scrapes my shoulder blade every time he moves, small stings I'll feel again in the shower tomorrow, and I welcome every one of them. Pain like this is easy. Pain like this has a source I can point to, a man, a wall, a night, and I let myself sink into that instead of the other kind that's been sitting in my chest since the moment we said my father's name out loud to each other for the first time.
He finishes first, wordless, buried deep, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, his whole body going rigid and then loose against mine in the space of a breath, his cock pulsing inside me until there's nothing left in him. His mouth stays pressed to the curve of my neck, his hand finally easing off my jaw.
I don't let him settle anywhere near soft.
The second his weight eases, I shove him back, both hands flat on his chest, and he goes, stumbling half a step before catching himself.
I'm already moving. I'm not done and I'm not letting him decide what happens next, not tonight, not after everything he decided without me for years, every silence he kept because he thought it was his to keep.
"Sit," I say. "Or lie down. I don't care which."
He straightens, chest still heaving, amber eyes tracking me across the room, and for a second he looks like he's trying to work out what's happening in his own house, in his own bed, under his own hands.
I don't wait for him to finish working it out.
33
NICO
She doesn't sit nextto me. She climbs on top of me.
One knee on either side of my hips, her hands flat on my chest, and she's not asking; she's just taking, reaching down to grip my half-hard cock and stroke it back to full before she sinks down onto me, not giving me the chance to catch my breath from the last time. I let her. I want to say I decide to let her, but the truth is simpler than that. She isn't giving me a vote.
Her hips slam down hard, harder than they need to, hard enough that I hear the small broken sound it costs her every time she does it again. She's soaked, dripping down onto me, and the sound our bodies make together is obscene in the quiet room.
She doesn't stop. Doesn't soften the angle. Doesn't do a single thing to make it easier on either of us. Her hands leave my chest and brace against the headboard behind me, knuckles white against the dark wood. Her head tips back. Her hair sticks to her throat, dark strands pasted to damp skin, and her whole body drives down onto mine over and over with a rhythm that has nothing gentle left in it.
"You wanted this," she says, voice raw. "You wanted to fuck me until I couldn't think straight. Well, here I am. Take it."
"Cazzo, Lydia."
For a while I think this is just her taking back what I took in the first round. Control changing hands. Fair enough. I've wanted her wild and unbossed before, and some ugly part of me still wants her like this now, wants to watch her use me exactly however she needs to, wants to feel her clench around my cock like she's trying to break something in both of us at once.
Then I feel what's actually happening underneath it.
She's not chasing anything good. There's no give in her, no easing toward pleasure, just a rhythm that gets harder on herself every time it should ease off. Her nails cut into my shoulders, four crescents deep enough that I know they'll still be there tomorrow. Her breath breaks wrong, too sharp, catching on something closer to a sob than to want, something fighting its way back out of her instead of building toward anything.
She's not fucking me.
She's using me to hurt herself.
I've never once, in all the months I've had her, wanted to slow anything down. Tonight I do.
My hand finds her hip, trying to still it. "Lydia...piccola, stop."
She doesn't stop.
Her hand comes down over my mouth instead, fast, flat, the exact gesture I used on her the very first night, a different wall, the same hand, and something in me goes cold recognizing it even as the rest of me is drowning in her, in the tight wet heat ofher still riding me like she can't stop even if she wanted to. She's not letting me talk her out of whatever this is. She's making sure I can't.
I could move her hand. I know I could. My arms still work. My strength hasn't left me, and some old part of me wants to flip her under me and stop this the only way I know how to stop things. I don't do it. Whatever she's doing to herself, some worse part of me understands she needs to finish it, and stopping her now would only be one more decision I made for her without asking.
