Page 79 of Fury

“Did you really just say lush?” I let out a laugh.

“That’s what it is.” His index finger thrust in my pussy and stroked against my inner wall, holding me prisoner. I let out a hiss.

“I can’t wait to suck on this lush. Eat it up, fuck it with my tongue. I want to make your sugar sweet bod wet over and over just for me.”

I groaned. “Then what?”

“Then my cock is going to pound it.” He stroked quicker, his finger churning. “And this pussy’s gonna come on my cock. Come so hard, you’re gonna be shouting.”

His thumb pressed over my clit roughly, and I stumbled on a breath.

“Don’t shout now though, Sunshine. You stay real quiet for me, and I’m gonna give it to you so fucking good the second we get through the door. Then that sweet ass will be crying out for me, won’t it?”

“Oh yeah,” I breathed against his throat, my lips nuzzling his damp skin for dear life.

I bit down hard on my lip refusing to moan and groan in front of the taxi driver. But that was proving to be really difficult as Finger spoke non-stop in hushed tones against my ear, my hips rocking against his hand more desperately with his every filthy remark. I glanced up at the rear view mirror. The driver shot us a curious glare.

Within moments the taxi braked at the corner. “Here you go.”

“You better pay, baby, ‘cause...” Finger broke out into a dark laugh. His fingers squeezed my clit one exquisitely painful last time, snapping at the elastic as they left me. He leaned back in the seat and sucked on his finger and thumb, shiny with my wet in the car light the driver had switched on.

I handed the driver a ten dollar bill as Finger adjusted his jeans. I got my change and pushed Finger out the door.

Holding hands, laughing, we raced up the creaky stairs of that grim hotel to our room. And in that room, we reveled in our own magnificent, beautiful world.

20

Almost two months later, Fingercalled me. Password given, and I headed downtown to a really cheap dive of a hotel that doubled as a rooming house for the homeless. We were in a tiny, shabby room that belonged to a friend of a friend of a friend of Finger’s who let us have it for the night. Coughing, arguing, the occasional curse echoed in the hallway along with the constant blare of the Cubs game on TV. We added to the cacophony with the screeching of the old metal springs on the twin bed we were fucking on.

I always counted the days, the weeks between Finger’s visits. Keeping track kept me steady, and the anticipation made my insides hum. I looked forward to his visits, planning things to do and see. Being with him wasn’t only the hot times together in bed. Being with him was home to me, be it making love in a mildewy room at a flophouse in a bad neighborhood, sharing a deep dish pizza in a crowded restaurant, walking all over town arm in arm in the icy cold rain.

His groans in my ear, his body crushing mine, a small smile just for me when he hardly ever smiled. My special, secret place was me and him. I danced there. Sang out loud and off key, hands in the air, his wind in my hair.

I didn’t think I had much emotion to give anymore. Med had squashed that for me with his cruelty. But Finger, oh Finger, he was cruel and loving all at once. Brutal in his intensity, in the ferocity of his need, but delicate in his mercy, and that awakened the greedy, hungry woman in me.

His tongue flicked and tugged at my nipple piercings. “Fuck, I love these. Fuck.” The arousal built again, zig zagging through my flesh, the kind of pleasure you think you won’t survive. Explosive. Furious.

“Finger,” I whispered, my legs wrapping around his hips. “Need you so bad. Want your cock inside me.”

He only made a grunting sound. He loved it when I talked during sex. Being with Med—well, you just did what you were told and only spoke when spoken to, and even then, you needed to agree with whatever he said. I hadn’t realized how I’d gotten used to that.

With Finger, sex was a whole other level of freedom. Freedom to touch him, explore, to give to him, to play and know that the playfulness, that joy of discovery was appreciated and mutual. There would be no punishments, no retributions, no report card at the end.

I roughly stroked his cock until it was hard and ready to do damage. That’s what I wanted. His fierceness taking me over. I scooted down and pushed him over on his back. Climbing on him, I sank on his cock and rode him. He held onto my tits in his tight grip and flexed his hips up into mine. The sight of his maimed hands on my body made my adrenaline spike, my blood rush to my head. My nipples stung and burned deliciously, and I grit my teeth and rode him faster, my fingernails digging into his wrists.

“I love you,” I murmured. “Love you. Love you.”

“I love you too.” One hand slid down my hip and held it, the other went between our slick bodies and rubbed my clit hard and fast. “I’m all yours, baby. You’re all mine, aren’t you?”

“Only yours. Yours.”

We reassured each other of this fact frequently during sex. Being apart for long stretches of time, often going without communicating because he was usually on the road on secret missions and not wanting our connection to be traced in any way. So when we were together, every word, every touch took on a mad significance.

“All yours.” I came once more, tears and sweat blurring my vision.

He flipped me face down on the bed and holding me there, thrust into me fast from behind, my hair in his fist. I ground back into him, tightening my insides around his hard length.

Finger always went fast when he needed to come. He wasn’t only chasing his orgasm, but escaping the pain his body and his mind still associated with coming inside of me. His grip on my hair and back tightened, and I bit down on my lip as he tugged my head higher. My fingers curled in the nubby sheet, and my eyes found his.

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