Page 45 of Damnation
He bends his head to bite my shoulder and lick my neck. Then he wraps an arm around my waist, cupping a breast in one hand and squeezing it. He gives me a strong push, forcing me to arch my back. I can feel his panting on my shoulder blade. He moans—low, raspy, virile. I can feel his boiling flesh melting into mine, inch by inch, and I abandon myself to pleasure.
Thomas slips a hand between my thighs and strokes between my wet folds, teasing my clit. The rhythm of his thrust gets more intense, and—my God—I can feel it everywhere, right down to the pit of my stomach. My thighs tremble, I can feel my skin beading with sweat, and I’m panting. My head spins wildly. I want to kiss him, to feel his warm chest against mine, to fall over the edge with him.
Thomas just keeps thrusting violently into me, until the room fades away around us. There are just our bodies now. I can feel my muscles tense, my chest shaking through a series of spasms, and I hold my breath as I let my orgasm detonate. The intensity of it is so overwhelming that I’m briefly afraid I’m going to collapse on the floor, but Thomas’s armaround my waist stops me. He also tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my head up, forcing me to turn my face toward him. He takes my mouth in the same greedy way he’s slamming his hips into my ass until with one final short, decisive thrust, he releases me, leaving me to hold myself up on my unstable arms. Then he pulls out, squirting hot liquid on my lower back and ass. As his grip on my hair gradually slackens, he pants so deeply that it gives me chills.
Finished, he rubs the back of my neck, pulling my hair off my back. He gets up to retrieve a hand towel and cleans us both. He tosses it to the floor, turns off the light, and comes back to pick me up, helping me to stand up despite my stiff, trembling knees. I am still being wracked by small tremors; my breathing is labored and fragmented.
When I’ve gotten to my feet, with my back pressed against his sweaty chest, I can feel his erection prodding my ass. “I want you again,” he grunts against my ear. He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around him, clinging to his body, sore but satisfied. “But this time in my bed.”
He lays me down on the bed while he remains standing in front of me.
He fully removes his jeans and boxers, and, with unusual delicacy, parts my legs and stares avidly at the place in between, where I’m still wet with both of our fluids. I bite my lip, fighting the urge to snap them shut out of shame. Only the darkness of the room keeps him from seeing my blush.
Thomas lowers himself on top of me, rubbing my calf and moving up toward my inner thigh, where he begins to alternate gentle kisses with hungry bites. Then he reaches my mound, where he lingers, making me arch into him.
“It wasn’t just for you,” I find myself whispering, my hands tightly gripping his hair. Even in the darkness of the room, I can see his eyes meet mine. He props himself up on tense biceps and smiles at me almost imperceptibly. Then he begins to slowly nibble along my ribs with his teeth, rising further until he closes his warm lips around the soft flesh of my breast. My stomach tightens, and so do my fists in his hair as I shiver.
“No, it wasn’t,” he confirms, moving on to my other breast.
“It would have been okay if it had been,” I reassure him, stroking up and down his broad back. His boiling chest presses against my breasts, and I’m surrounded by the savage smell of him.
“When I fuck you, I want to be present.” He buries his face in my throat and licks it. A thrill of arousal makes me dig my nails into his flesh. Thomas grabs my thigh, drawing it aside and pushing himself in between my legs again. I gasp. I pull his face down against me until our lips met as he begins to move inside, slower and deeper this time. For a split second, I feel the intense need to confess everything to him: how insanely in love I am with him, with this broken and damned boy, with all the parts of himself that he thinks are flawed or beyond redemption. But something holds my tongue.
I’m afraid it’s too big a revelation for him right now. Too important and too binding. Instead, I just luxuriate in his kisses, welcome his thrusts, and love him in secret. I draw my free hand along his muscular arm, touching his chiseled chest and narrow hips. With just my fingertips, I brush the long irregular scar on his side before stroking it gently, yearning to just relieve a little bit of his pain. But then I feel him go rigid, as if my touch is costing him some effort.
He stops and looks down at me, troubled. I stop touching him immediately, fearing his response. I can remember the first and last time I tried to touch him there, and he had such a negative reaction that I haven’t tried it again. Faced with his penetrating stare, I gulp. I’m about to apologize when I’m interrupted by his voice.
“Don’t stop,” he mutters, seeming almost surprised at himself. Hesitating slightly, he grabs my hand and places it back on his scar. He kisses me more forcefully, grinding me into the mattress. He holds my ass, filling me with ever more determined thrusts until a powerful electric shock seizes me from head to toe. As I reach my third orgasm of the evening, I plaster myself against him and scream so loudly that I’m almost immediately embarrassed.
After two more powerful strokes, Thomas stops, overcome and spasming. He grabs my hand and intertwines our fingers. He raisesour linked hands above my head, and flexing the muscles in his back, he comes deep inside me. I can feel it pulsing inside; my body contracts rapidly. It is the most intimate moment I’ve ever experienced.
“Fuck, Ness…” he blurts, his movements slowing as the intensity of his orgasm begins to wane. When I open my eyes back up, I can see Thomas’s half-closed eyes, his hair soaked, chest sweaty, wracked by labored breaths. He collapses on top of me, burying his face in my neck. He’s gasping for breath but still careful not to crush me.
It takes him a few minutes to recover, finally lifting his head to rest it on mine. He stares at me for a few seconds, stroking my hair, pulling damp locks away from my face. “I won’t be able to do without it anymore.”
“Without what?” I ask, still panting.
“This.” He kisses me softly, his lips parted. “You. Us.”
My chest tightens until it feels like my heart is going to explode. “You won’t have to do without it.”
He just keeps staring at me as though he’d like to say something else but can’t. In the faint moonlight that lights the room, I spot a hint of worry on his face.
“Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head, rubbing my cheeks with his thumbs. “Just swear to me you won’t leave.”
There’s a dark edge of desperation in his voice that makes my breath catch. I look deeply into his eyes and say, more seriously than ever: “I won’t, I promise.” I kiss him and he reciprocates more intensely. Then, he stretches out next to me and we roll on to our sides, lying face-to-face. We are both tired and worn out. Seeing my goose bumps, Thomas draws me close to him and covers us both with the sheet.
“You want me to close it?” he asks, jerking his head toward the open window behind me. I shake my head. The sound of the rain and the feeling of the wind moving over my body is blissful. I want to keep enjoying it. Instead, we close our eyes and fall asleep, clasped tight, as the beating of our hearts blend together.
Twelve
When I wake up the next morning, the weather is gloomy. The gray sky seems to make everything feel a bit melancholy. I’m still wrapped up in Thomas, who sleeps with my head tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped around my back.
He didn’t sleep peacefully the night before; dredging up memories must have shaken him. He writhed and held me the whole time, as though he was trying to use my presence to soothe some of his torment. I pull away from him a little and just watch him sleep, gently touching his cheekbone, then his forehead, where a slight expression line forms as soon as my skin touches his. Even when he’s unconscious, I get the feeling that he is still in conflict with himself.
A delicious smell emanating from downstairs coaxes me into leaving Thomas’s warm and welcoming bed. With great care, I slip out of his hold and walk to the bathroom on my tiptoes. I put a little toothpaste on my finger and quickly brush—or rub—my teeth. First item on the to-do list: bring all my personal stuff over here. I wash my face and put my hair up into an everyday messy bun. Looking in the mirror, I can see some minor dark circles underneath my eyes. Considering the time we finally fell asleep, that’s to be expected. What catches my eye instead are the unmistakable marks Thomas has left almost everywhere on my body. Signs of what he did to me last night in the bathroom at the club, on the floor of his room, and then again in hisbed. I pass my fingers over each bruise—my breasts, my belly, down to my thighs—and I smile, biting my lip. They don’t hurt; in fact, they bring back the memory of what I felt in the moment I received them: happiness.
