“Yes,” I moan. “Bishop, fuck me.”
He lets go of my leg, pulls out, flips me over, and picks me up, rolling onto his back. I climb on top of him, slowly dropping my weight over his hard dick. Leaning on his chest, I roll my hips, his cock thrusting inside me as his pelvic bone collides with my clit. I swing my head back, and his hips buckle as he clenches onto mine.
“Come.”
As if on cue, I let go, sweat dripping off both our bodies. I clench around him, throbbing as the orgasm smashes through me and I jerk through the ecstasy.
“Fuck!” His hips slam up, pushing my body up faster and harder, plowing through my orgasm to reach his. He sets me off again, and wave after a wave, another orgasm collides into me, my clit swelling, my nipples cool. Bishop leans up, catches one of my nipples in between his teeth, and bites down on it. It stings, but the sting with the pleasure is too much. His hand comes up to my throat while his other stays on my hip and he lies back down, a touch of blood on the corner of his lip. I don’t have to look to know where that’s from; the stinging of my nipple says enough.
His fingers dig into my hips, his grip around my throat tightening to the point where air is coming in and out slowly, like I’m breathing through a thick cloud of smoke. He pounds into me, his balls slapping against my ass as I try to regain control being on top of him, but there’s no point. He is always in control no matter what, so I let go. Dots dance in my eyes from being choked, my thighs throb from his grip, and now my hips are stinging too. He slams into me harder, and I feel it again, the build-up. My head swings back. I’m exhausted, but I’m not able to stop the pleasure. He’s fucking the life out of me, quite literally, because I can feel myself losing consciousness every now and then, but I notice how he loosens his grip every few seconds too, as if to give me little cracks of air.
I’m just about to hit the tip of my orgasm when he comes, his dick throbbing and pulsing inside of me. He lets go of me instantly, and I ride it out with him slowly. I wanted another, but I know I’m being greedy, and I can already feel how sore I am, not only everywhere where he’s physically hurt me, but down there too. Wincing, I swing my leg and get off, feeling his cum drip down my thigh.
“I get the depo shot,” I say sleepily, dragging my sore and severely fucked self to the bathroom and pulling down a towel to clean myself up. He still hasn’t said anything, so I look at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he answers through a dry throat. Getting up, he tugs on his boxers and walks toward the little bar fridge I have in the room. Surprisingly, even though I just had rough sex, my head doesn’t feel bad. Or I’m just that sore everywhere else on my body that my pain threshold has sort of tilted this way.
Bishop gets a bottle of water and twists off the cap, taking a drink while looking at me.
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask, throwing the towel into a hamper and going back to bed. Fuck the rumpled blankets; I can’t even be bothered remaking my bed, so I just slip under, sliding onto the side I sleep on. When Bishop doesn’t answer, I look over to the little alarm clock that sits on my bedside table. Fucking 5:00 a.m.? Mother fuck.
“It’s 5:00 a.m.!” I yell, honest to God shocked at the time.
“Then we fucked for three hours.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, watching as he slips back into bed with me.
He stretches his arms out, pulling me into him. I don’t know why, but I smile, my heart calming at his touch, his smell, his flesh pressing against mine. All those things are why Bishop is home to me.
He kisses me on my head. “Because the terrors happen at the same time every night.”
“Why?” I whisper, yawning and beginning to feel more and more pain all over my body. I’ll hate to see what I’m going to look like later in the morning.
“Because I’ve done bad things. And those bad things like to remind me every night that I did them.”
I swallow, my eyes heavy even though my interest in this convo is piquing. My body and mind can’t keep up. “Did what?”
“Killed and fucked.”
I CAN’T MOVE. THAT’S NOT a figure of speech. I literally cannot move a muscle in my body, and I’m not sure if I should be genuinely concerned about this or not.