Page 12 of Dance Practice, Marooned: Part 2

“I am trying to fix it now, I am trying to keep you safe,” he says, his voice nothing more than a rasp.

“Bullshit.” My voice cracks. “You tell yourself whatever you have to, to make it better, but you are a fucking arsehole, Ace. Own it.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. He smashes his fist into the tree beside me, a burst of wild, unkempt rage. I’m breathing so hard now, it might as well be hyperventilating. The next thing I know, his hands are in my hair, hauling me forward, and his mouth is on mine. I shove him as hard as I can. The world tilts. I slap him, claw at him, but instead of letting me go he just yanks me tighter, kissing me so fiercely my lips bruise.

I break first, face hot with shame—or maybe not shame at all. That is the worst part. That I want him. Even now, with all the things that should have killed the desire, I want him so much it hurts. He breaks the kiss, staring down at me with wild eyes. His fingers knot in my hair, rough and unyielding, and for a long minute we just glare at each other, both breathing hard.

Then I feel the tears start, silent and hot, streaking down my cheeks. I’m not even crying for him, or for me, or for any reason I can make sense of. I’m just empty, and the only thing left to do is fall apart. I don’t let him think on it, or me for that matter. My hands curl into his shirt, and I drag him in, slamming my mouth against his once more. This time, he hesitates—he actually hesitates, because he’s trying to be the good guy again, fucking idiot.

That makes me even more insane.

I pull him closer, refusing to back down. He finally gives in, grabbing my waist and slamming my body against his, so every part of me is pressing against him. We crash against the trunk of the tree, bark scraping my back. The pain is good; it’s real. His mouth is everywhere, punishing, bruising, but I want it. Want it so badly that when his hands slide under my shirt, I arch into him, daring him to be brutal.

The only time he lets up is to whisper into my neck, so guttural it’s barely words at all. “I’m fucking sorry.”

He’s all over me, then, shredding what’s left of my composure. I wrap my legs around his waist, clawing at his belt, and he hoists me higher up the rough trunk, pinning me there. My whole body is alive, and I crave it. I need that feeling to remind me why I’m here. He bites my shoulder, my collarbone, and I make a sound so feral I don’t recognise myself. There is no romance to this, just need.

Need and pain and the crushing desire to lose myself, even if it’s just for five minutes.

His hands are everywhere—spine, ribs, hips. He drags my pants down, mouth on my throat. The rain starts in earnest, cold needles on my skin, but I don’t care. I want it to sting. Want some proof the world still has an edge sharp enough to cut me. He doesn’t make it gentle. Neither do I.

He fucks me against that tree like the world is ending today, and this is our last chance.

His cock drives in and out, menacing, angry, perfect.

He thrusts into me, full of fury and regret, and I welcome all of it. I want him to fuck me like he means it, like he’s trying to punish himself, or maybe me, or maybe both of us for being the reason we all ended up here. The climax is violent; it rips through me and takes all the breath out of my lungs. My head slams back against the tree and I don’t even care.

Right now, I care about nothing.

He finds his release moments later, a guttural growl that echoes through the trees.

When it’s over, I let out a noise that makes the whole world feel hollow. He holds me for a minute, both of us shaking so hard it’s impossible to speak. The rain pours down now, soaking us, washing away all the blood and mud and guilt. For a moment, I am nothing more than a body, pressed against his.

Then reality kicks in.

I shove him away, ignoring the emptiness that washes over me when the warmth of his body slips away from me.

“I’ll never fucking forgive you, Ace,” I croak, holding his eyes in a way I have never done before.

A way that shows him I mean it.

It’s final.

It’s all fucking final.

“WE’RE ALL SET BACK up in the shelter.”

Turning, I glance at Aggie who has just stepped up beside me. I am sitting by the water a few days after my encounter with Ace, just staring at it, not feeling completely myself. It isn’t depression, no, it’s something else. Tingling in my lungs, whole body aches, and my head is pounding to a point I am concerned I am going to be the first person on this island to get fucking sick.

How the fuck does one even get sick on an island, when there is nobody else around?

Is it even possible?

Could it be something else?

I start frantically thinking about all the things I have done in the last few days. I don’t have any open cuts, or wounds. I haven’t eaten anything different, at least, I don’t think I have. I can’t see any valid reason I would be feeling like this, yet with every passing hour it gets more and more clear that it isn’t going away.

Maybe I have just given up?