Her blood leaks through my teeth, and I gasp, hating myself for wanting this. It’s a new kind of fucked up to be turned on by making her bleed. It tastes sweet, unlike anything I’ve wanted before. I wish I could stop.
“God,” she moans into my ear, her heels digging into my ass. “Suck harder.”
I move my other hand that’s not holding her head to her shoulder, yanking her into my movements. My balls tighten, ready to come the moment her blood floods my mouth. I hate myself for this. I suck harder, just as she asked, the warmth of the scarlet juice in my mouth seeping onto her bare shoulder. It paints my lips, and then hers. I trail my fingers from her shoulder to her chin and make her look at me. “I’m bad for you,” I tell her, hoping she understands the meaning, the reality, or maybe I’m hoping with those words, the lies will leak through, and she will come to the truth I can’t say on my own.
I can’t love you.
I won’t.
Without warning, she cries out against my mouth, rocking her hips into mine. Her nails dig into my skin, the burn exactly what I need. Helplessly, I take everything I can from her in these moments when she’s raw. I drown her with my kisses, destroy her with hard, quick thrusts that drive her delicate body up the mattress.
I can feel my heartbeat. Not in my chest, in my head.
A beat.
A rhythm.
A river of deceit. It pulses. Thumps. Cuts through and urges words that don’t come. I watch her fall apart in the darkness, her face buried in my chest. It shatters me.
Too caught up, too much of everything, I find the broken skin, the taste of her consuming my thoughts. The moment her blood hits my lips again, the need stirs in my stomach.
Selfishly, I clutch her to my body, because I want this. Her. This feeling. All of it. I never want it to end, but somehow, someway, it will before I’m ready.
My hips jerk, and I know what’s about to happen. Though I don’t want to come this soon, my dick has other ideas and begins to pulse. My arms coil tighter, my bloody lips slipping from her shoulder to her lips, and I fuck her with everything I have left. It’s as I’m pumping my cum inside her that she kisses me. It fuels the false hope that this will ever work.
It can’t.
It won’t.
No words pass between us for several minutes. With a grunt, I roll off her, wishing I could smoke in here. My dad would skin me alive if I did, and though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, I don’t.
“Do you want some water?” I ask, my throat dry.
Journey nods, her breathing light and steady. I peek over at her. She’s staring at the window beside the bed. “Definitely, and I’m starving.”
With a smirk, I kiss her temple. “I think there’s some Pop-Tarts in the pantry.”
“You read my mind.” She peels herself from the bed. Instead of getting dressed, she slips my flannel over her shoulders. “I really hope they’re cherry.”
I fight off a smile, thinking I wish I would have popped her cherry.
Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Running my hand through my hair, I stand up and reach for my shorts near the bed. I don’t bother with a shirt as I hope we’re not up for long. I’m exhausted and could really use a few hours of sleep.
Tiptoeing down the hall, we find ourselves in the kitchen off the family room. It’s an old house, and it seems every step draws a creak from the wood floors. I move quickly, hoping Bear, or worse, my dad or Atlas don’t wake up. The sky’s beginning to fade from blue to gray, and I know in about two hours, Atlas will be awake.
Digging through the pantry, I find the box of Pop-Tarts I stashed out of Atlas’s reach the other day. He once went a whole week when that’s all I could get him to eat. Now we have to hide them.
Journey picks up the photograph sitting on the counter, her fingers wrapping around the frame my mother made. It makes me sad that she never got to meet my boy. She would have loved being a grandma.
“Tell me about Atlas,” Journey says, drawing me from my thoughts and smiling at me.