by K. L. Savage
Even after I’ve come, my cock is pissed off and rock solid. I grip it in my fist and rub the head against her wet, come-covered folds. Her pinkness glistens with our fluids, and I want nothing more than to drive into her, but I have this urge to hear her beg for me.
I have to hear that she needs me just as much as I need her.
I roll off the bed and kick my pants off. I’m filthy. She’s filthy. What’s the point of getting clean when we’re just going to make ourselves dirty all over again? Some people would find it disgusting, I’m sure. I’m covered in sweat and sand and she hasn’t had a proper bath in three days, but I’ve given her a sponge bath in her sleep. She just doesn’t know it.
My boots stop my pants from coming off and I growl in frustration. There is dirt on the floor surrounding my shoes and I bend over and angrily unlace them. I kick them off and they hit a stack of books, causing them to crumble to the ground. My jeans are next, and when I’m done, I climb back on the bed and unwrap her panties from her ankle, where they lie in a useless puddle.
Her glassy eyes are locked on mine and her legs are spread open, shaking along with her breaths. Her pussy is swollen from just a few slaps of my palm. A dollop of her nectar seeps from her tight hole that has only ever known my cock.
And only I will ever know her.
I grab the hem of her shirt. There is a spot that has a small tear where the stitching has come undone. Deciding I want her shirt off, I tear it in half by gripping each tattered side with my hands and ripping it down the middle until her small, perky breasts bounce out. She moans as the cool air wraps around her tight nipples.
“I liked that shirt.” She’s breathless as the jagged edges of the material drag over her beaded peaks.
“I don’t care.” I run my hands up her body, closing my eyes when her ribcage expands with each inhale. I let my palms linger there, getting turned on by feeling her breathe.
That’s all it takes.
Knowing she’s alive, knowing I can feel her life in my hands, knowing she’s under me willingly, and knowing she loves me.
Me.
How could I not be turned on by that?
The ridges of her ribs slide against my palm. I make a mental note to get her to eat a little more. I don’t want my Comet hungry. She’s perfect as is, but I want her as healthy as she can be so she can be by my side for as long as we live.
Fuck that. I want more than life.
I want her in death, too. And in every life we live after this one.
She’s mine.
Until the end of time.
I open my eyes and find her watching me, and my hands move, gliding up and over the mounds. The callouses on my hands scratch along her beaded twin peaks and she inhales a sharp breath. I linger there for a second and move my hands in small circular motions. She bites her bottom lip into her mouth. Those spine-tingling noises escape her lips, driving me fucking crazy.
Here I am wanting to ravage her, but now I find myself wanting to take my time.
I roam down her body until I dip between her legs and force her legs apart again. I love seeing the mess I made down there. My come is dripping on the sheets and sticking to her thighs. My fingers twitch with the desire to spank her clit again. I get a flash of sudden desire to make her come from it.
I want to use something else though.
Something more intense. Something harder.
I reach into the nightstand and pull out my knife, remembering how much she loves it when I bring the blade out to play. I grab the sheath too. Don’t get me wrong, we like to cut, but I don’t want to cut her down there. It would bring her too much pain, and like I said before, I never want to hurt her.
Sliding the sheath onto the black, sharp blade, I clip it into place. She follows my hand with her eyes, and when I lay the protected blade between her legs, her hand snags around my wrist. “Why is the sheath on it? You know I like it when we—”
I let the action speak for itself. I lift the blade and smack it against her swollen bundle, getting come over the sleek protectant of my knife.
Her lips make a large O, and I’m imagining my cock plummeting her throat again, which causes it to jerk another drop of come out of the slit. I want to be inside of her, but I want her to fall apart like this first. I want to cherish the way she makes me fall apart every second of every day by destroying what I’ve known and teaching me all the things I don’t.
I smack her again. The loud slap of the hard plastic of the sheath against her sweet candy echoes into the room, playing a new favorite song I want to listen to on repeat.
I don’t ask her if she wants it harder, I just apply more pressure with my swing.
“Oh god, Tongue. Yes, feels so good,” she mumbles, high on the pain and pleasure only I can give her.
Only. Me.
My come acts as a sticky barrier that causes each smack to feel more intense than the last. The V between her legs is swollen and red. Her clit is erect and poking between her folds; the sensitive flesh of her thighs is trembling uncontrollably.
Fucking gorgeous.
“It hurts so much,” she cries, a tear drips down her face, and I bend over to lick it off her cheek. Delicious. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” she cries.
Like I’d ever stop.
I’m a strong man, but I’m not that strong. Her cries fuel my sick need to inflict more pain. Another hot tear escapes her, and I drink her up before it goes to waste. “Tastes so good, Comet.”
“Tongue, I need you inside me. Please, please.” The desperation. The pleading. The tears. The irritated skin between her legs has me giving in. I give her clit one more slap and place the knife to her lips. She knows what I want her to do. She sniffles, the whites of her eyes red from crying, and she hums in satisfaction as she licks my come off the sheath. She slowly runs that beautiful tongue of hers all over her lips, relishing my taste.
I toss the knife to the side, crawl over her body, and shove myself inside in one deep thrust.
“Tongue!” she screams my name as she convulses around me.
“Is that all you needed, Comet? My cock inside you for you to come?” I slowly slide out until all that’s left is the tip. I look down, watching myself being coated in her juices. Her pussy is hot from the knife slapping and her legs are still shaking as they hook around my hips.
“That’s always what I need.” There is a sheen of sweat gathering between her breasts. My mouth waters to drink her up.
I thrust in again, squeezing her tits tight in my palms to show her how good she makes me feel. She’s grabbing at my chest, clawing at the skin from the punishing rhythm. Her body scoots up the bed and the books that support our mattress start falling onto the floor.
It’s something I have to fix every time we have sex.
“All you’ll ever need is me,” I growl to her, pressing my pelvis against her hips. I lift her legs and push them together, laying them against my torso, then I wrap my arm around the silky-smooth limbs as I gain momentum. I lay my cheek against her calf, moaning her name. “Daphne,” I utter in the back of my throat as the wet sounds of us bring me closer to filling her.
She isn’t just tight and hot. She doesn’t just squeeze me until I can’t think straight. She doesn’t just make all of my wet dreams come true.
When we are tangled in one another like this; when she gives herself to me—not just by spreading her legs, but by giving me her trust—that’s when I understand what love is.
She trusts me to take care of her. To only bring her pleasure. The same pleasure I equate with pain.
Daphne trusts me.
The thought has me slowing down, positioning her legs on either side of my waist, and curling my body over hers. I tuck my arms under her back, then hook my hands around her shoulders to drive in with long languid strokes until my sack is pressed against the crease of her ass.
I think about her struggle, how I hurt her the other night, how she deserves better. I clutch on tighter. I don’t e
ver want to let go. If I do, she might realize she’s better off. She can’t leave me. She isn’t ever allowed to leave. I would die.
Death would be welcome after losing someone so full of life.
I feel….
I clutch onto her tighter, burying my head into the nook of her neck and inhaling. She’s here. She’s safe. She’s okay.
I feel…
The blunt head of my cock pierces her again and again. She’s whimpering sweet songs in my ear that make me want to slam her against the wall or chain her to the bed to have my way with her.
Her arms wrap around me in return, her hands gentle as she coasts down my back. “Oh, Tongue. I’m here. I love you. We were made for one another, Tongue. Can you feel it?”
Her whimpers and whines are broken with how much deeper I become with every thrust.
I feel…
Exposed.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be with us. We fuck hard. Messy. Bloody. That’s how we show each other we know what we need.
Not understanding the burning behind my eyes, I pick her up, swing us over the bed, and walk to the nearest wall to prove my point. I keep my hand behind her head, so she doesn’t hurt the wound I caused. The bang of her body hitting the wall has me humming down her throat in satisfaction.
That’s better.
Her hands cup my face, and she arches her back, giving me the perfect view of her silken throat. I bend down to bite the flesh, to show her that pain is who I am. It’s the only way I can function.
But I kiss her pulsing vein instead. I watch the beautiful pearl-colored flesh pebble from the simple brush of my lips. Why does she react to me like this? I don’t deserve such an exquisite reaction.
I’m so confused.
Why is this happening?
I stumble back and the bed hits the back of my knees. I flip us again, pinning her on her back; I’m prepared to fuck her hard and fast, but I’m curling over again, pressing my lips against hers in a slow, sensual kiss.
This pace, this place with her, in her embrace and between her legs, makes me feel her love. My body is rejecting the rage in my mind. I’m screaming at my body to do what it knows, but the thrusts are slowing, and I’m holding onto her so tight I’m worried she can’t breathe.
“Comet…”
Her name sounds more like a question as I drive into her, slow with most of my inches, and then I thrust my hips at the last minute. She likes that because a loud moan always leaves her. “Comet…” I try to explain myself again and the damn burning is back in my eyes.
Images of what my uncle did slam against the front of my mind. His hate burns across my back with every cigarette he puts out against my useless flesh. I rub my forehead against the crook of her neck, wanting the memories scrubbed. They don’t have a place here. He doesn’t have a place here. It’s only Daphne. It’s only me.
Us.
“It’s okay,” my Comet whispers in my ear, clenching her fingers into the mess of my hair. “I love you,” she says. “Let go.” The fragile tickle of her hand presses against my heart. “I have you. I’ll always have you.”
Holding the side of her neck to keep her head in place, I kiss her, driving my tongue into her mouth as my other hand migrates down. I hold her hips still, rolling in and out from between her legs, and try not to lose myself completely the more I allow myself to let go like she says.
I can’t let go more than I have, or I don’t think I’ll recognize myself.
Would that be such a bad thing?
The voice inside my head sounds like reason. A fickle bitch I’m not familiar with.
“Wayne.” She pushes against my chest to lift me off her and she kisses each cheek. “Your tears are safe with me.” Her thumb brushes under my eye and my uncle’s voice fades into the distance as my eyes focus onto her face, her beauty. The more her blue irises shine with understanding, the more I hate the kind of man I am. She needs me to be stronger, but the more she breaks me open, the more I see just how weak of a man I really am.
She squeezes around me just as another book clatters to the ground. Her broken puffs of air barreling out of her tickle the side of my jaw as she climaxes, whispering my name.
My given name.
And the rest of me that refuses to let go breaks free. I push to the hilt, trying to get deeper, trying to get as far as her body and mine allow. I orgasm, holding my breath and seeing double from the intensity. Strong jets leave me and bathe her womb.
I hope it does.
Bound to me in sickness and health isn’t enough. That will happen in time, but I want more.
I don’t leave her as we come down from our high. Instead, I kiss her senseless, locking my come inside her. We don’t speak, we just lose ourselves in the kiss, and I start smaller thrusts as my cock hardens again.
I’m going to be between these long legs all night.
The haunted images of my uncle are long gone. My chest is open and bared to her as she reaches inside, clutches the agony I carry in her hands, and squeezes it until it dies.
Madness created me.
Abuse broke me.
But it’s Daphne is who is stitching me back together.
I’m finally inside the bookstore after another two days of resting. Well… two days of amazing, passionate sex with Tongue. I don’t think we ever left the room unless he got up to get food and water, well, and bathe. Even when we were bathing, we got dirty.
He has been an emotional rollercoaster ever since I hit my head. The monster inside him has been dormant. Almost like it curled up hibernating in the back of his mind, safe and sound tucked underneath a wool blanket. I thought I saw him for a minute when he sheathed the knife and slapped me with it, but it was fleeting, and then something big happened.
I don’t know what it was. I don’t know what made him recoil into his skin again. As much as I miss the monster (because I do, I fell in love with the monster first), I’m so happy I got to see the reluctant bunny instead.
Bunny is a bad word. Tongue could never be an actual rabbit. He’s more the type to skin it, cook it, and eat it, then save the fur for a pelt or something. A bunny is the only animal I can think of at the moment to describe his hesitancy to bring his softness forward. Bunnies are timid, and as soon as they experience something out of nowhere that scares them, they bolt.
Now, while Tongue doesn’t run, he clams up when it comes to feelings, because he is learning what they mean.
While his beast sleeps, the bunny comes out to play.
Until the beast wakes up of course and eats the bunny… well, that’s a bridge I’ll cross when we get there. It’s my job to protect the bunny when he emerges, so I can only make sure that’s what I do when Tongue decides to push the soft and cuddly to the side.
And his soft and cuddy is like something walking over the tip of nails, but he is learning.
“Ma’am? Excuse me?”
I blink my eyes and stare at the contractor, who is snapping his fingers in front of my face. His blue overalls are splashed with paint ranging from white, red, black, and green. He has drywall in his brown hair, and he seems annoyed as he waits for me to answer him.
“Where do you want this?”
He holds a book in his hand and waves it around the air. I am horrified and insulted that someone would treat a book with such carelessness. The pages act as an accordion as he swings the delicate, vintage, classic, historical novel in the air. As if it’s being used to help paint dry. I’m so stunned that I’m barely able to say and do anything.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s in the way of us knocking down the wall. It was in a weird glass case, but the case broke when we tried to move it. Cracked right down the side. I really do apologize. I’ll cover the cost of the damage.”
My mouth hangs open as dust flies in the air. The pages are hanging on by… by… sheer will!
“Holy Moly, Mister. What are you doing!” I shriek, launching over the makeshift countertop that must be made out of plywood and h
opes and dreams, because I don’t know how it’s standing. I rip the book out of his hand, the first edition copy of Wuthering Heights.
The first. Edition.
How dare he treat a book with such malice. “Do you know how valuable this book is? Do you know how old it is? Do you know the damage you’ve done by manhandling it the way you have? Just the oil from your nasty, dirty, unwashed fingers that have paint and dust all over them have probably compromised the integrity of the pages. The binding is delicate, and I think you ruined it.” I double check the pages and let out a sigh of relief when they seem to be intact, but the binding is weaker. “This is… this…”
“You’re cute all flustered, lady.” The workman leans against the plywood and smirks, creasing the lines in his cheeks as he tries to flirt.
Oh, he is an idiot, isn’t he?
I ignore him with a shake of my head and find an empty box under my fake desk. I kneel on the ground and lay it in the box, closing the four cardboard sides as gently as I can. I’ll need to get another container and have a velvet lining added in it. This book can only be handled with gloves.
It was the only good thing that came from Andrew, the man who owned this store and employed me before he decided he wanted me and wanted to fight Tongue. He ended up dying for his stupid decision and Tongue did something amazing. He bought the store for me, and now I get to live my dream.
Tongue is making my dreams come true, but I can’t help but wonder what his dreams are. He hasn’t even shared them. Wouldn’t he want to do more than be at the beck and call of Reaper? Or fix cars in the garage? He has to have some type of goal, but then again, maybe he doesn’t. He’s never had the opportunity to think about himself.
And his art, the way he draws, is not just a random talent that won’t get him anywhere in life. He has a real gift. I want to show him he is more than the tasks everyone has him doing.
The man kneels on the ground and peeks his head underneath the desk. “So, your name is Daphne, right? You own the place?”