“Do it,” she says, one hand moving to unbuckle my belt.
I dip my head to kiss her again. She tastes sweet when she should taste bitter. And when she slides her hand into my briefs and fists my cock, squeezing it, I groan and draw back.
“Do it. Fuck me.”
I suck air into my lungs and look her over.
“I want you to do it.”
I drag the fingernails of one hand over her chest, pinching one nipple before slapping the breast only to hear her cry out, to watch her eyes, those fucking eyes, grow soft with tears. Pain I cause.
I turn away. I can’t look at her. Can’t kiss her. I should take what I need to take and fucking walk away, but she is kissing me again, and I can’t resist her when her fist tightens around my cock.
“Do it, Amadeo. Fuck me like you want to fuck me. Fuck me and show me how much you hate me.”
It’s too much, all of this. What should have happened. How it was meant to be. How I was supposed to feel. The nothingness that should be between us. We are both broken, and that damage has bound us in a way it shouldn’t. A way it was never meant to.
She kisses me deeply yet again, and here comes that inferno, a blaze of scorching flames that will leave only ash and smoke in its wake.
I break the kiss. I can’t look at her.
Knowing I should be gentle tonight of all nights for her first time, I flip her onto her stomach and draw her hips up, holding her, opening her, and thrusting into her hard enough to make her cry out.
This is what I want. Her cry. It’s all I should ever want.
But something isn’t right.
I draw out, look down, and thrust again. The resistance I expect isn’t there. She’s tight, so fucking tight, but there’s no blood. She’s not a virgin.
But when she arches her back and moans beneath me, all thought vanishes, and I’m focused on her, wholly on her.
After I slide the fingers of one hand to her clit, she begins to meet my thrusts, burying her face in the blankets as she takes her pleasure from me. When I feel her walls pulse around my cock and see her fist the sheets and hear her moan my name, I come undone. I look down at her. I watch her lay the side of her face on my bed, sweat beading her forehead and making her hair stick to her face. Those pale strands catch in thick, dark lashes, obscuring her eyes as she watches me. The look inside them makes me thrust once more and seat myself deep inside her as I come hard. Filling her as she pants for breath, giving herself to me. Does she do it to save herself? To make some sort of strange cease-fire. A faulty truce. I don’t know. All I know at this moment as my mind swims is that I cannot look away from those eyes that I should hate.