Page 76 of Psychotic Faith
"You need to know you're still capable of feeling," he says.
His voice is a low rumble, soothing and raw. He lifts me, guides me down onto him. The stretch is immediate, sharp, almost cleansing. Pain that’s not terror or harm but a reclamation. I let myself settle, let him fill me, let the water slosh and overflow as we find our fit.
Each movement is a test. My hip screams where the bruises are deepest. My knees slip against his thighs. But his hands never stop—one on my waist, the other tracing the shadows on my ribcage, the fresh cut, the fingerprint bruises, the tiny bite mark just below my collarbone. The places where I end and he begins are written in violence and tenderness. I wonder if we’ll ever be able to tell the difference.
We start slow, rocking together. This isn’t like before, like any other time we’ve fucked. There’s no power struggle, no games, no punishment or reward. Just two broken things trying to become whole. The water amplifies sensation, heat and friction and movement, and sometimes I forget where the pain ends and the pleasure begins. I don’t care. I want all of it.
I try to say something—thank you, don’t leave, please don’t let me go—but my voice is gone. I press my palm to his chest, feel the hammer of his heart, then touch my own where it’s beatingdouble-time. I drag his hand up and place it over my heart, hold it there, let him feel what he’s done to me.
He understands, of course. He always does.
"You gave me a reason to be more than empty violence," he says, and the words go deeper than anything physical ever could.
His thumb moves in slow circles over my breastbone, grounding me, making me real.
His mouth finds my shoulder, then my jaw, then the hollow behind my ear. He doesn’t kiss me so much as breathe me in, like he’s trying to memorize the way I smell, the way I taste after victory and blood and tears. His teeth scrape along my clavicle, not enough to hurt but enough to remind me that I’m alive, that I survived. That I am, for this moment, safe.
The rhythm between us builds gradually, like a tide returning after a storm. The ache in my body becomes a kind of music. I let my head fall back, water spilling down my neck and over my chest, and I moan. There’s nothing polite or pretty about the sound. Just need, raw and animal and so very human.
He moves faster, but I don’t want it to end. I cling to him, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders, silently begging him to stay inside me, to keep me anchored, to keep me from drifting back to the place where Neumann was alive and I was helpless. The pleasure crests and fractures and reforms, and when I come, it isn’t a fireworks-burst but a long, shuddering quake that leaves me sobbing.
He follows a moment later, my name on his lips. I feel the heat of him inside me, the way his body tenses then collapses, and I realize we’re not separate at all. We’re one thing now, tangled and bruised and somehow more alive than before.
The water is lukewarm now, tinged pink with diluted blood. I watch the ripples settle, the aftermath of our violence, and I know I’ll never be the same. I don’t want to be.
We stay joined in the cooling water, neither willing to separate.
Finally, we rise from the water as the last traces of pink disappear down the drain. Luca wraps me in a towel like I'm precious, and I catch my reflection again.
Same face but different eyes. Harder. Clearer. Honest.
He carries me to his bed, laying me down with the kind of care usually reserved for holy things.
"Rest," Luca says, sliding into bed beside me. "You need to heal."
But his hand is already between my legs, fingers finding me soaking, still ready despite everything.
I push Luca’s hand away. “My father…” I manage to croak.
"By the time he calls," he murmurs against my neck, "your voice will be stronger. You'll tell him you're safe. And all he'll see is his tired daughter. He won't see the killer you've become. Won't taste the blood you've spilled."
I moan softly as his fingers slide between my legs again, working me, the sound ragged from my damaged throat.
"But I'll know," he continues. "I'll know that under your cardigan, you're covered in my marks. That your pussy is sore from my cock. That you've got a killer's blood under your fingernails and you loved every second of it."
I come with a strangled cry that's part pleasure, part recognition. This is my life now. Caught between worlds, lying to everyone except him.
As sleep pulls me under, I feel Luca's hand tighten possessively on my hip, fingers pressing into bruises that are already forming. His body shifts against mine, and I feel him hardening again.
"When you wake, you'll have to lie to your father," he murmurs darkly. "Look him in the eyes and pretend you don't have a killer's blood under your fingernails."
His fingers trace the juices still leaking from me, making me shiver.
"But right now," he continues, his cock pressing insistently against me, "I'm going to fuck you one more time before you sleep. I want you exhausted and dripping with me when dawn comes. Want you to wake knowing exactly what you've chosen."
I try to speak but only manage a pleading sound, part gasp, part broken whimper.
"Shh." His fingers find my clit, circling slowly, coaxing the throb that started at violence and never really stopped. "Save your voice. You'll need it for the lies ahead."
