My nails dig into his taut flesh. “I know.”
A grimace and a jerk of his hips. “You’re so tight. Tighter than my fist.” Another grimace. “But I gotta move. I gotta get in there.”
I nod. “I know. I want you to.”
Stopping, he studies my face for a few seconds. Then, he pushes his arms under my upper back, lifting me from the couch and bringing our chests flush. I tuck my face in his neck, breathing him in. His apple scent is crazy thick.
“You love to grab my cross, Pixie, don’t you?” he whispers in my ear and I nod. “Why?”
“It makes me feel close to you. Like God connected us somehow even before we met.”
He sucks on my earlobe. “I want you to grab onto it now, okay? Bite on it if it gets too bad.”
In answer, I hook my finger around the chain and fist the silver cross tightly. He kisses my sweaty hair, my throat, as if soothing my skin. His tongue catches a drop of my sweat and I do the same. I lick the line of his shoulder, the side of his neck.
Joined from top to bottom, our skin stuck together, we stare at each other. Without breaking eye contact, he does it. He pulls out a little and then wedges in, forcefully, breaking my hymen and burying himself inside me.
That’s when I let go. I let go of his gaze and squeeze my eyes shut, moaning loudly. I keep my promise to him and bite down hard on the silver cross, feeling the sharp edges of it on my tongue.
This feels like dying. This can’t be anything but death. Death feels like this. It’s enormous and throbbing and I can’t stop my tears. But then, my tears get lapped up by the boy who first invaded my heart, then my soul, and finally my body. He apologizes with every lick of his tongue, until I’m breathing again. Until my fists uncurl and my teeth unclench, and death doesn’t feel so bad.
I open my eyes and take in his face. It’s marred. Not only by his bruises but his frown, the severe line of his jaw, his flaring nostrils. He’s in pain.
“D-does it hurt for you, too?” I thumb his cross.
“Yeah.”
I widen my eyes and flex my innermost muscles. “Is it me?”
His forehead drops over mine on a groan. “Jesus. Fuck. You’re so tight and so hot and so fucking… soft. It hurts to not move.”
My lips part at the realization. Obviously. It hurts me when he moves and it hurts him when he doesn’t. Why does it have to be so hard? Why make something so pure such a torture?
Well, not anymore. I’m breaking the cycle. I’m taking him and he’s taking me, no matter what.
Swallowing, I move. I lift my hips and grind against his pelvis. Abel jerks, hissing. No matter what he said about wanting in me, wanting to move, he won’t. He won’t consciously hurt me. So I’ll hurt myself. I’ll suffer the pain until it gets good. It’s nothing new, anyway. It’s our love story.
“Pixie, what the…”
I rock, grinding my clit along his pelvis, letting go of the cross. “I’m making us feel good.”
His forehead scrunches up, his cock throbbing, like there’s a bomb stuck inside me. Only this bomb has the ability to make me feel good before it explodes. He unwinds his arms from around me and lays me down on the couch, and his necklace hits me on the chin. It undulates as Abel starts to move and I catch it in my mouth once again.
His eyes smolder, burn me alive as I suck the cross like a lollipop. I don’t need it for pain now. I need it for pleasure.
Our movements are smoother, his strokes more like glides. But at the same time, they feel scratchy. My clit hits his pelvis; my feet find purchase on his calves and rub against the coarse hair. The couch scrapes against my back, my butt.
Friction. I need all the friction in the world. So I can set it on fire.
I moan around the cross, driving Abel crazy. He whips the necklace out of my mouth and kisses me. I suck on his lips like I was sucking on the metal before. It’s making me wild. It’s making me push back against him.
And something happens. Something weird and paranormal, and we break our kiss and turn our gazes to look to the side at the same time. How could I have forgotten the mirror? It’s giant and tall, like the one in our room.
Oh God, but we look like a mess. Our skin is slick with sweat, stuck together, our limbs sliding along each other. I’m splotchy all over, flushed but somehow pale too. Abel’s dark and massive, like a cloud, his muscles bunched up and tight.