Page 71 of Troublemaker
My eyes shot open.
He watched me in the mirror as he punched, and punched, and punched, not making a single sound of pain, blood seeping between his knuckles and painting the white wall.
“Please, please, stop,” I begged, full on sobbing now. “Stop it, stop it.”
“No, I deserve this as much as you do. I deserve it for not being honest with you and hurting you, and you deserve it for not being honest with me and hurting yourself.”
“Blake, stop, I’ll do anything, I swear to god, just stop, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I promise I won’t be reckless anymore, I won’t do bad shit to get your attention, just please stop…”
He stopped immediately, shaking out his bloody hand.
“Motherfucker, that hurt,” he muttered, and then he was crossing the room toward me and lifting me with up with both hands, one clean, one bloody, getting his blood on me. And I hated it, hated him, and hated myself more.
“I hate you,” I told him.
His eyes were gentle.
“No you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t, Lucy. If you did, you wouldn’t care. This wouldn’t have hurt you. I won’t make you say the words now, but we both know how you really feel.”
He sat down, placing me on his lap so I straddled him, and rocked me, and I let him, even though he was getting blood everywhere, because I couldn’t stop him, and because after everything he’d just done, being held this way felt soothing in ways I’d never known I needed.
Finally, I said, “Can you untie me now?”
He stroked a bloody hand over my back, leaving remnants of his guilt and atonement all over my body.
“Not until I do this first,” he said, and as he leaned toward me and tilted his head down, my breath caught.
Was he about to…?
“Blake…”
“God,” he groaned, his lips practically touching mine so we were breathing the same air. “I’ve been dreaming about this for so long. You know I’ve never done this before, right?”
My heart stopped.
“Wait, what are?—”
But before I could finish my question, he kissed me.
And I lost my breath entirely.
He was gentle at first, a barely there brush of his lips against mine, once, twice, three times, before he rested his mouth on top of mine, breathing slowly. Just touching, nothing more, but the softness and the slowness cracked open something inside me, and a seed planted so, so long ago, but had never seen light, began to bloom.
As it unfurled, so did my heart, with the sweetest ache. Tears came to my eyes, and he must have felt them as they dripped down between our faces, because he pulled back and brushed my hair out of the way, looking at me.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Not what’s wrong, what’s right,” I said, leaning back in and trying to capture his lips with mine again, frustrated that I couldn’t move my arms to grab him around his neck and pull him toward me. I had no choice but to take what he gave me. And what he gave me was slow and steady, tender and caring, solid and sweet. I inhaled the peat and honey scent of him as he kissed me again, harder this time.
“Open your mouth, Lucy,” he said against my lips, and I did. Immediately, he surged inside, his tongue thrusting and licking into my mouth, groaning as he clutched me tighter. He tasted so good, fresh mint and honey, and I chased his taste, chased his tongue, completely uninterested in being demure or coy, fully invested in tasting as much of him as I could. He tasted me right back, his tongue tracing patterns on the inside of my mouth before going to war with my tongue, doing his best to dominate mine. I fought back, but he fought harder and won, forcing me into submission as he took, and gave, and I gave, and took, forgetting everything and everyone until all that existed in this moment was his mouth and mine. A supernova began to form inside me, my thighs wet with need and my body burning bright as he declared me his with every lick, every kiss, every bite of my lips.
“Mine,” he growled against my mouth.
“Mine,” I growled right back.
