Callum
Aida is lying in my arms. I can feel how flushed and warm she still is. And I saw how hard she came. But I would be worried how she was feeling in the aftermath, if I weren’t so distracted with my own absolute amazement.
I’ve tied women up and fucked them roughly before. Some of them ask for it, and other times I was just experimenting. Some girls are so boring to fuck that you might as well tie them up, because they’re just going to lay there either way.
In all those instances, I felt like I was going through the motions.
With Aida, it was totally different.
Sex with her always is.
Fucking used to be about release for me. It was a manual act, that could be good, bad, or indifferent.
I never imagined it could feel so good that it takes me over, body and brain. The sheer, physical pleasure is insanely intense. Bizarrely stronger than what I’m used to.
And then there’re the psychological factors. Aida attracts me in a way I can’t understand. It’s as if every one of her features was formed with some kind of secret code designed to burrow into my brain. The long, almond shape of her smoky, gray eyes. The insane curves of her body. Her smooth, cedar-colored skin. The way her teeth flash at me when she grins. The way she bites the edge of her bottom lip when she’s aroused, or trying not to laugh.
Isn’t that the same thing with her? She loves passion of any kind. She loves to be angry, stubborn, joyful, or mischievous. The only thing she doesn’t like is a lack of feeling.
Unfortunately, that’s what I am. Cold. Restrained. Lacking in pleasure.
Until I’m around her.
Then my senses crank up to a feverish degree. I smell and taste and see more acutely. It can almost be too much.
It scares me, how I lose control around her. In the few weeks I’ve known Aida, I’ve lost my temper more times than in all the years preceding.
Yet, I don’t want it to stop. I can’t imagine going back to dull indifference. Aida is the doorway into another world. I want to stay on her side forever.
Jesus, what am I saying?
I’ve never had these thoughts before, let alone allowed them to form into words.
How am I getting so wrapped up in this girl, who frankly is out of her fucking mind? She tried to shoot Jack! In my kitchen! If she did that at a campaign event, I’d be royally fucked. And I wouldn’t put it past her, either.
I’ve got to calm down and keep my head on straight.
That resolution lasts about five seconds, until I press my nose against her hair and inhale that wild scent of hers, like sunshine and sea salt, dark coffee, pepper, and just a hint of honeyed sweetness. Then I feel that jolt again, that adrenaline shot, that switches off the governors on every one of my impulses.
When Aida’s phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin.
Aida jolts awake, having drifted off on my shoulder.
“Who is it?” she mumbles.
“It’s your phone,” I tell her.
She rolls out of the bed, amusingly clumsy. She doesn’t even try for grace, tumbling off the edge of the mattress like a panda bear. Then she roots around for the phone, finally locating it halfway under the bed.
“Dante?” she says, holding it against her ear.
She listens for a moment, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl rather like the default expression of the person to whom she’s speaking.
“Cavalo!” she exclaims. “Sei serio? Che palle!”
I’ve never heard Aida speak more than a word or two in Italian. I wonder if that’s what she speaks at home with her family. She’s obviously fluent.
Aida has a lot of hidden talents.