Headlights(97)

She reaches for the top of my briefs, slides them down, freeing my cock.

“If I wanted to, I would have already,” she says out loud. The half-broken tooth in her mouth. All of her, right here.

I bend forward and kiss her hard. Draw it out, take and give what I can.

She breaks the kiss to spit on her hand, and I think there’s a little blood in it. My blood, from my finger. She slides her hand over my cock, with the spit and the blood, and I grip her ass with my good hand and I can feel that she likes it. Loves it. A little hard, a little rough. She leans back up and stares straight into my eyes. I bring my good hand up beside the other one, both hands held before her like an offering, and she knows what I’m asking. She takes my index and middle fingers of my good hand in her mouth, sucks them slowly, covers them in that spit.

I push them into her mouth, watch her, feel her lips close around them, her tongue sliding, sucking, tasting. She’s imagining it’s the other finger. Knowing, anticipating what she’ll soon taste. Feel. What I’m giving to her. Again, I push them in and out of her mouth.

Then I pull my hand back. And I reach down, slide those same fingers down between her legs. Fuck, even through the fabric of her underwear, she’s so wet. I move it aside, find her entrance, and I slowly push one finger in.

It feels, she feels—

She lets out a sound that makes me want to do this a thousand times. A million. That makes me never want to leave this room. She’s so fucking wet, it’s killing me. Perfect. She is so goddamned perfect. Where has she been all my life, and how is she here now?

Her nails dig into my shoulder, her back arching. I slide the second finger in, and she cries out. I groan. I slide them in and out once more, twice. I pull back just enough to watch them push in and out of her, as she thinks or whispers, Yes, god yes. As I rub my thumb over her clit, still pump my fingers in and out, move them so fucking easily. The wet warmth of her.

I see it now too. She’s wanted this. Feel the memories, thoughts. Dreams of me in her cabin. Lying on that twin bed beneath the wall of drawings, her hand, traveling down her stomach, into her— Fuck, Hannah.

She sucks in a breath, and she reaches out, takes my wrist again, the other one. The one I’ve been holding up for her. It’s too much, too hard. Knowing it’s there, waiting for her. That it’s just there, and it’s hers, and— She can’t wait any longer. I don’t want her to.

I position my injured pinky in front of her mouth.

She opens wide, her tongue out just a little.

I swear again. The sight of her, the feel of her.

My good hand’s fingers still inside her, I push my injured hand forward, place my pinky on her tongue.

Hannah Lawrence. She looks right at me as she closes her mouth around my bloody finger. She starts at the base again, slides her mouth back to the tip. Her spit, the blood.

I suck in a breath, hold the injured hand steady. Pain. Terrible pain. I’m dizzy with it. With more than pain. Everything so intense. The blood on the floor rising, maybe two inches now, beneath us.

I pull my good hand back, slide it out of her. And I move my hips forward, I hover there. The tip of my cock touches her entrance, and I can barely breathe, just feeling that wetness there.

John Denver playing, that other song. Sound and static and pressure and pain.

It’s only half a second, this suspension. This pause. But it’s a lifetime. It’s every moment that makes a person who they are. It’s realizing that all of them mattered because they brought you here, and none of them mattered because they weren’t this.

Pain. Fear. Blood. Self-hatred, terror, loneliness.

Want.

I thrust my hips forward and slide into her.

She bites down.

I let out a groan. I’m blinded with it. It fucking hurts. It feels better than anything, ever.

I am here, and not here. In this bathroom, in the other-space. I am in a state of pain and ecstasy that I didn’t think was possible. I think it might kill me. God, please let it kill me.

If this is death, if this is …

I pull my hips back, and I shove into her again as she sucks and she chews on my finger. As she whimpers and moans, her eyes closed, tasting. Spit and blood dripping down her chin. I have never seen anything so fucking beautiful. The room spins, everything pushing in, every terrible memory and moment. The music, the pressure. The thing outside the door that is powerful and wants to maybe hurt or kill us or— Hannah takes and sucks and chews, and I push into her, again and again.

So fucking terrible and good and—

Hannah’s right hand, up my shoulder, my neck. Up to my face. Her thumb under my chin. I know what she’s doing. And I know that she has to. That I have to. But I can’t do it on my own. I can’t. I don’t want to, I want to stay here, and fuck this perfect woman, keep fucking her, feeling myself inside her, and— But I have to. I have to.

So I let her.

She pushes my chin up, and I close my eyes for half a second before I open them.

I open my eyes. I see them in the mirror.

Blood

Bathtub

Fear, Pain

Terror

Mom, Dad

Blood

Blood

My eyes.

My dad’s eyes.

Pain in my hand. Absolute fucking bliss of being inside Hannah.

I am staring at myself. Looking at myself in the mirror.

I hate him. I hate him so much.