Page 87 of Tipping Point

She didn’t speak, just traced the dark circles under my eyes with a fingertip, eyes light and open as a morning sky, foggy with thought.

I thought about Grace, and the fucking letter from her daughter in my bag, crumpled from handling it, unopened still.

She didn’t speak when I rose, pulling her up by the hand.

We showered together, long, the room dense with steam, and when we were done, she wrapped her arms around me from behind and laid her cheek against my back.

Her fingers traced the raised flesh of the burn scar.

I thought about the way the car spun in the air, and the noise it made when it ripped through the chain-link fence.

I grabbed her hand and spun her around, pulling her to my chest. Her curls, dark from the water, clung wetly to her neck, and I pushed them back with trembling fingers.

I lowered my face to the beating pulse in the strain of the muscle as she laid her head back, eyes closed, but I held it there.

I didn’t like how she had surrendered to me. I had spent the fury I had carried with me this week. Now, all I had was fear.

This is why I never fuck before a race.

And I’m tired of it. Tired of the cycle, holding onto my anger, building it up every week, clinging to it during the race, and afterwards, the relief. Temporary respite before the whole thing starts all over again.

And the next race was at the track where it all went down fifteen years ago.

Camille was a desperate respite, and I’d set out to have her before I died. I had achieved that goal weeks ago, but even so, I could not let go. Still, I had not had my fill of her.

It was time to let go.

Her breasts brushed against my ribs, her nipples peaked and hard.

I wanted to fuck her again, but this time, I didn’t want her to meet me halfway. I wanted her to push back, angry and vengeful like me. Because I was furious that this would be our last time.

“Camille?”

She shivered.

“Camille,” I murmured against her neck, running my hand up her waist, cupping it around her breast, brushing my fingers over her nipple. “You want me to fuck you again?”

“Hmm.”

I ran my hand up her back and gripped her behind her neck, drawing her to me.

She moved to kiss me, but I tightened my grip, holding her back.

She squirmed.

“Beg me.” I threw her words back at her, the challenge she gave me at the ball, when she was wearing the lace mask and licked her blood-red lips.

When she opened her eyes, they were a stormy grey.

She took me in quietly.

“No,” she breathed.

My erection was rock hard. I turned her towards the counter, pushing her against the sink. The edge dug into her ass as I pressed my body up against hers. My dick twitched against her soft stomach.

“Beg me,” I said again.

“No.”

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