I pound into her, on top of her, covering her with my body, digging my boots into the cheap mattress for traction with each hard thrust. Those nails rake across my skin, leaving stinging trails as she claws her way through me with each whimper, and moan, and cry, her legs wrapping around my waist, welcoming me inside.
Fuck, this woman...
Yeah, I’m actually fucking this woman.
She grows quiet, her grip loosening, scratches becoming barely-there touches, her body shifting every time I thrust into her.
She’s limp in the bed.
Pulling back, I look down at her tucked beneath me. She’s staring off into the distance, gaze fixed to a nearby wall. Dazed. Zoned out. Gone.
“Oh, no, no…” Grasping her chin, I turn her head, forcing her to look at me. “You’re not doing that blank slate shit with me.”
She blinks a few times before her eyes narrow.
“Go ahead, get mad,” I say, continuing to thrust. “But when I’m inside of you, Scarlet, you don’t get to fade.”
“I’m not,” she says defensively.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire...”
She growls, hands running up my back before she fists my hair, tugging on it, yanking me back down toward her. “I’m not fading.”
“Damn right you’re not,” I say, brushing my nose against hers before I kiss her.
She doesn’t fade again, those moans returning, turning to sharp cries as I stroke her clit, bringing her to orgasm.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I hold myself back for as long as I can, watching her as she comes apart at the seams, the sounds escaping her primal, like a wild animal, before my body just can’t take anymore. If I don’t come soon, my balls are going to revolt. They’re seriously going to close up shop and go the fuck home. Grunting, I thrust hard, knocking the flimsy bed into the wall, as a swell of pleasure runs through me.
“Fuck,” I groan, gripping her tightly, fishnet-covered legs still wound around me as I spill into the condom. Stilling, I press my forehead to hers, catching my breath, inhaling her scent. The vanilla is still there, yeah, but the smell of sex overshadows it now, and the shame?
Yeah, that’s still all over her.
“Satiated,” I say, still balls-deep inside of her. “Is that what your Scarlet Letter stands for?”
She shoves me when I ask that, pushing me off of her. “Stupid.”
I pull out with a groan. “Stupid?”
“That’s what yours would stand for,” she says. “Stupid. And smug.”
“Satiated,” I say again, standing up, finding myself in quite the predicament, considering my pants are wound around my ankles like shackles and I need to make my way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. My ass is on full display, and I’m not exactly modest, you know, but I’m kind of hoping I don’t fall flat on my face.
It’s possible.
Plausible.
Probably going to happen.
So I sit back down on the edge of the bed and untie my boots, yanking them off. After dropping them to the floor, I pull off my pants, wearing nothing but my socks as I seek out her bathroom.
It’s small.
I’m talking tiny.
Fucking minuscule.
I have to be careful taking a piss, my dick practically bigger than the width of the room. A can’t-walk-into-the-shit closet. A hole in the damn wall. It’s completely ridiculous.
When I’m finished, I go back to her bedroom. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, which means I probably ought to give Seven a call to come pick me up so I can try to get some sleep tonight, get my head back on right. Maybe now that I’ve been inside of her, it’ll purge all these goddamn thoughts of her from inside of me.
Scarlet is sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her shirt stretched around them as she huddles beneath it. Not for warmth, no… more like trying to shield herself from the world around her. Nervous again. I sit down on the edge of the bed, eyeing my discarded clothes on the floor.
“It’s been nine months,” she says quietly.
“Nine months since what?”
“Since I last came face-to-face with Kassian.”
Ah. “I’m assuming that was him tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been hiding from him for nine months?”
She laughs dryly. “I’ve been hiding from him a lot longer than that, but it’s been nine months since he last found me. I’ve managed to evade him for forty long weeks.”
“Almost broke your streak tonight.”
“Almost,” she agrees.
“What does he want from you?”
She shrugs. It’s not an evasion. I can tell the reaction is genuine. She doesn’t put it in words, but I know what she’s saying... she doesn’t understand what he wants. Maybe she knows, in her head, but she’s listening with her heart, a dangerous path to go down.
“Whatever it is he wants, you probably should give it to him so he’ll go away.”
“But what if he won’t?” she asks. “What if this is what he wants?”
“What, mayhem?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you get rid of him a different way.”
I draw a line along my throat with my fingers, making my point, as I lay back on the bed. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m exhausted, too lazy to put on my pants yet. Shit. My eyes are burning, my head starting to pound with the beginning of a headache, thanks to the adrenaline rush finally fading, mediocrity creeping back in.
“That’s not an option,” she says quietly. “Murder isn’t always the answer.”
Laughing, I close my eyes, covering my forearm with them. “Hell, and here I thought it was...”
Chapter Twelve
The sun rises in the east.
I’m not sure how old I was when I learned that. To this day, I’m not even sure why it happens that way. Although, it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s just an undeniable fact, one I think about those mornings when I sit up here, on this rooftop and watch the sun peeking out over the Brooklyn skyline, bathing the borough in an orange glow, like the streets are on fire.
Some days, it feels like they might be.
It feels like Brooklyn is burning and I’m just here, sitting, watching it disintegrate as I breathe in the smoky air, my lungs scorching and chest aching, not doing a goddamn thing to stop it. Because, seriously, what the hell am I supposed to do? Huh? I’ve yelled ‘fire’ so many times that nobody even looks my way anymore when they hear me screaming, like I’ve become nothing but white noise in a crowded city full of overpowering voices.
I’m probably not making any sense to you. It’s okay. I don’t understand myself anymore most days. I just sit on this ledge and stare out at the fiery horizon as another day dawns, too strong-willed to ever fling myself off the side of this building but yet too damn powerless to ward off my inevitable fall. So I sit, and stare, and wait, and cling to the little bit of hope I wake up with every day, but I don’t stop doing it, I don’t just give up, because maybe—goddamn it, maybe—I’ll find my wings again and get to soar.
Fly the fuck away from all of this.
But until then, I’m just grounded.
Tagged and tracked.
My wings got clipped.
I’m a little caged birdie.
Sighing, I bring the joint to my lips and inhale, taking a puff of scorching smoke into my lungs, holding it, letting it soothe the pain away as it makes my head just a bit more foggy so I stop agonizing about a life on the other side of that too-deep river that I’m never supposed to cross.
“You know, I didn’t kill you when you stole my wallet. Didn’t kill you when you stole my money. But my medicine? That’s crossing a fucking line, Scarlet. I might throw you off the roof for that.”
That voice makes my skin prickle, places inside of me tingle, as it calls out behind me on the roof. Lorenzo. The tiny hairs covering my body stand on end, like sparked by electricity, as I hear his footsteps. I wouldn’t classify myself as ‘frightened’, because I’m pretty sure he’s not really going to kill me, but I would say it’s kind of alarming, because, well... I’m only pretty sure. There’s still that chance he might actually throw me off the roof and make me go splat.