Page 41 of Psychotic Faith
We stay locked together as the aftershocks ripple through us both. I lower her legs from my shoulders, but remain inside her, unwilling to break our connection just yet. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, satisfaction written across her features.
This is when interest should fade. When the chase ends and boredom begins. It's the pattern I've followed my entire adult life—want, take, discard. Clean. Efficient.
But as I look down at Faith, feeling her pussy still pulsing gently around my softening cock, I realize I want more.
The pattern is broken beyond repair. The equation has changed, variables shifted into an unfamiliar configuration. Possession should have diminished my interest. Instead, it's intensified it beyond recognition.
I look down at Faith beneath me, her body flushed and marked by my hands, my mouth, my cum leaking from between her thighs. The sight should satisfy me. Instead, it's kindling to a fire I thought had been extinguished years ago.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice hoarse from screaming my name.
I consider lying. Lying is efficient. But something about the way she's looking at me—like she can see the chaos churning beneath my skin—makes me tell a version of the truth.
"I'm thinking about how this isn't following the pattern."
Her fingers trace the contours of my face, lingering on the scar along my jaw. "What pattern?"
"Want. Take. Discard." I say each word deliberately, watching for her reaction. "That's how it always goes."
Fear flickers in her eyes, quickly replaced by something darker. Understanding. "And where are we in that pattern?"
"That's the problem," I admit, rolling to my side but keeping her close, one leg thrown over hers possessively. "We should be approaching the discard phase. I should be bored now that I've had you."
She goes still against me. "Are you? Bored?"
I laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. "Look at your body, Faith. Look at what I've done to you in the past six hours. Does that look like boredom to you?"
Her hands slide down to the fingerprint bruises on her hips, the bite marks on her breasts, the scratches down her thighs. A small, satisfied smile plays at her lips. "No.It looks like obsession."
"It is. But that's not the point." I reach for my phone, checking the time. Four a.m. Three hours until dawn. "The obsessions always follow the pattern. You're breaking it."
She shifts closer, her small hand splaying across my chest where my heart pounds a rhythm unfamiliar to me. "Maybe I'm different."
"Maybe." I don't tell her that's what terrifies me. That the equations governing my existence for the past decade are suddenly unstable, variables shifting beyond my control. That the wall I built between myself and feeling anything real has cracks I can't repair.
17 - Faith
Iwake to sunlight and soreness, every muscle protesting. The bed beside me is empty but still warm. Of course Luca didn’t stay to sleep—he doesn’t sleep. Probably watched me for hours before disappearing.
My phone shows 7:41 a.m. and three missed texts:
Luca (6:23 a.m.):"You're beautiful when you sleep. Stopped breathing twice. Should see a doctor about that."
Luca (6:45 a.m.):"Your car stalled again yesterday. Unacceptable."
Luca (7:30 a.m.):"Coffee and car shopping. Be ready by 8."
I stare at the messages. After the night we just had—after he made me scream his name and confess every dark desire—he's thinking about my car?
The knock comes at exactly 8am.
He looks worse than last night—same clothes, shadows under his pale eyes deeper, like he hasn't slept in days. Which he probably hasn't. But he's holding two coffee cups from the expensive place on Michigan Avenue, the one I walk past every day because a single latte costs what I budget for a week of groceries.
"You take it black with one sugar," he says, handing me a cup. Not a question.
I stare at the cup, then at him. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything about you, little faith." He steps inside without invitation, moving through my space like he owns it.Because in his mind, he probably does. "Your car is a death trap."
