Page 29 of Mayfly

He falls back onto the bed beneath me.

Both my hands are around his throat and my weight is bearing down on him.

His top lip curls and he rasps out, “Bad puppy.”

“I’m not a fucking puppy!”

“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve got the face of a fucked bitch.”

“Iwillkill you.”

“No, you won’t." A tear drips directly from Curren’s left eye and lands above my top lip. And when I lick it, I sense another change in him. I can feel it in the way his gloved hands flex around my neck. “You want me to fight.”

Curren’s thighs press into my hips with so much force I’ll be bruised come morning. His index fingers crawl to my carotidarteries, and push. And my muscle memory has me digging my thumbs beneath his, ready to bend them back.

We’ve reached a stalemate.

He knows it, and I know it.

If I let go to try and overpower him, I’ve only got ten seconds before I pass out. And if Curren tries to move, I’ll snap his thumbs at the knuckle.

“You’re a sub, Curren. Why are you trying to fight it so hard?”

He screams at me, “I’m not a fucking sub!” But doesn’t tighten his grip.

“I’ve had you on a leash since I poured that Scotch down your throat.” The twitch of his right eye is subtle, but I see it. “You’ve always been in control, haven’t you? You’ve left every woman you’ve fucked worse off than how you found them.”

“It’s been twenty-one years since they took you away. Don’t you dare pretend like you know me!”

I release his finger. "That's right. I don’t know you.” The leather floats back down to my neck but applies no pressure. “Because Iamyou.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, more tears fall to my face.

My palms reach for his chest and hide the words KILL ME that are inked there—scarred, really. His skin was sliced so deep it’s hard against my palms.

“And that means I’mnotHarry.”

“Shut up!” he yells, shaking his head; his perfect dark waves tussling further.

“You’re not a kid anymore, Curren.”

“I said, shut up!”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

I can see it happening before he even moves, yet I don’t stop it. I don’t move my hands. I don’t break eye contact. I will be his punching bag for as long as he needs me to be. Though I can’t deny that it hurts; a fist as strong as his to your jaw will do that.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeat. And so does he, this time to my cheekbone. But I’ve had worse.

Now he’s holding back.

“It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

His heart is beating so fast that the veins in his neck look like they’re about to burst. Unable to hold it together, he wipes his face free of the tears that prove me right, and this time his voice shakes; “Fuck you.”

Grabbing his wrists, I bring his hands to my mouth. With wide eyes, he watches me lick up the palms of both gloves and suck every finger, drinking his tears. His pain. And when I’m done, Curren doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he slides his middle and index finger over my tongue. Then, parting his fingers, he pushes them into my mouth. They run across the top of my teeth, under my tongue, over my lips.

“Fuck me,” he shudders, instantly appalled at himself.

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