Page 63 of Crawl
“I can sing to you,” she says. “Or we can just eat cake.”
It’s a nice thought, but I’m not interested in the cake.
I run a hand up her side, the curve of her hips making me salivate. The bruises on her neck are mostly healed now, with only a few greenish-yellow spots from the noose, but I want more. I want to see my marks all the time, to proclaim to the world that she’s mine. But the more I work her skin, the harder it’s going to be to bruise her, no matter how hard I try. It’s an omen, a reason we can’t get more attached, but Remedy grins, and I lose that train of thought. The more intertwined our lives become, the stronger she gets. One of us is going to break, and it’s looking like there’s a chance it may be me.
Why am I still with Remedy?
I cup her ass, squeezing that juicy bubble that connects with her thighs. My cock stirs awake, eager to slide into her warmth again. I can never get enough of her.
“If it’s my birthday, do I get to spank you?” I ask. A shiver runs down her spine and she bends over the counter, pushing her ass into me, grinding on my dick. Blood floods to my cock, but something stops me. She glances over her shoulders at me, and there’s hesitation there. She’s not only my lover treating me to a fake birthday celebration, but a woman who thinks I owe her. Hunger simmers in her movements, too calculated to be genuine. She’s hiding something from me.
And maybe Idoowe Remedy. She’s been through physical and mental torment for me.
But she grabs my hands, smirking, dragging me toward the bedrooms. I yank her back, twisting her from her clothes until she’s naked with her chest flat against the countertop. As I press into her upper back, her breasts smash on the surface, and her cheek lays against the marble, a hazy reflection of her face in the smooth material. I rub her ass, teasing her supple curves. She wiggles her hips. She wants this as much as I do.
I smack her ass so hard, the palm of my hand stings like hell. My hand is red, and her ass too, and she lifts her foot, the pain shooting through her body. I don’t care for spankings, but when it comes to Remedy, I like physical contact. It hurts me almost as much as it hurts her. The recipient and the aggressorbothfeel the sting. Everything is connected. I lick my fingers, getting them ready to tease her, then I press my hips into her back.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask, teasing her dark hole with my fingertip.
“I-I—” she stammers, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t move.”
I wait for a moment, making sure she stays still, and though the bottom of her spine curves, like she wants so badly to press into me again, her feet stay flat on the ground, her ass in the air. I check the kitchen drawers: wooden spoons, plastic utensils, knives, and other tools. But I want something that will hurt. A weapon that can cause damage, to remind her that I own her. Just like she owns me.
I find it: a large metal spoon with straining holes on the end. This will count as my fake birthday spanking.
The air whistles through the holes and the spoon bounces off her skin. She screams, curling her toes, the hairs on the back of my neck raising at the high-pitched squeal, andthatmakes it worth it. A swollen, purple oval darkens her ass, taunting me for more. It’s a bruise that will last for a long time. She’ll feel my touch whenever she sits down.
But I wantmore.
I hit her with the spoon again and again until she’s panting like a dog, twisting to get off of the counter. But I hold her down, making sure that she endures every blow. I want her to know what it feels like every time she barges into my mind, every time she fucks up my world until it doesn’t make sense. Why am I still here? I hit her again. Why haven’t I saved myself yet? The spoon claps on her ass again, and I wonder how I’m so wrapped up in Remedy that I’m willing to risk everything, even my life.
She’s destroying me.
“How does that feel?” I ask, my pulse elevated, the veins throbbing in my temple. She writhes against the counter like a snake, and I pin her down with my weight, then play with her pussy, her wet lips making my eyes roll into the back of my head. “You want to come, little cure?”
“Yes,” she moans.
“Then show me how desperate you are.”
She bucks her hips on my hand and I pull back her hair, watching her face contort as she moves. Her body crashes through each motion, but her eyes stay fixed in place. I’ve seen that look before. The vacancy that occupies her mind. This isn’t a fake birthday celebration. She’s toying with me.
I remove my hand and her jaw drops in surprise.
“Tell me what it is,” I demand.
“Tell you what?”
“Why did you fake that orgasm?” I breathe through my teeth. “I’m not your ex. I know when you come. And that was a spectacular performance, but it’s not enough for me.”
Her tongue runs across her lips. She’s trying to think of the right answer. She rubs her hands against her sides as the panic sets in, but then she lifts her chin, looking down her nose at me.
“I saw the body,” she says.
“What body?”
“You’re not Cassius Winstone.”
