Page 58 of Torn

If Merry’s eyes were open, they’d roll back in ecstasy. Instead, she moans as the wet flat of him whisks at her tongue, plunging and then retreating, over and over.

Sweet Fates, he tastes of rain and bitter chocolate, reminiscent of the gelato he’d consumed yesterday. The pull and tug of the kiss escalates. It deepens, the effect of which scrambles her brain and swells between her legs, causing the tender area flanked by her thighs to constrict. Arousal spurs madness, and she greedily, boisterously, latches onto his tongue and sucks.

A shudder treks up Anger’s body. He groans, the sound thrashing from him and throbbing into her. Encouraged, Merry sucks harder, and he practically hoists her off the ground.

She’s wrecked. She’s never been so enchanted by a tongue, never been so famished in her life. She wants to bite him, chomp on his jaw, snack on his teeth like kettle corn.

Her body can’t get close enough to his. She wants to crawl up his torso and make a nest there.

Anger’s palms sweep from her hair, dive under the rear straps of the overalls, and drag down to Merry’s bottom. He grips her ass, which is covered in lace briefs, crushing the dainty material and holding her in place while he rips their kiss to shreds. They chase a rhythm, hard lips folding and unfolding together, tongues riding one another.

It’s a lovemaking tempo, an act that mimics another act entirely.

This is nothing like the kisses she’s tried before. This is like kissing a live wire, their mouths fusing and then detonating, with a blitzing texture and a shoving weight that blows her off her feet.

And now she knows what passion feels like.

And then she knows what its end feels like.

On a hiss, Anger tears away from her, his mouth swollen and panting. Shock pierces the drunken glaze in his eyes, the maelstrom receding to a drizzle.

He releases Merry so swiftly that she staggers. He’s just as clumsy, jolting backward. “I can’t,” he rasps. “I won’t.”

“What?” she wheezes. “Why not? Didn’t you like it?”

“This isn’t supposed to happen. Not with you.”

The words have the craggy texture of desperation.

“Not with me…,” she draws out. “Because I’m not her.”

Anger shakes his head, like he doesn’t know whether he’ll say no—or yes.

Merry’s stomach roils. Volts of fury climbs up her throat, reminding her of a circuit breaker gone rogue.

She nods. “I might not have that goddess’s hold on you, but I certainly wouldn’t want to.”

“She doesn’t have a hold on me!” Anger barks. “She took my heart and tossed it away. She’s the reason I’m banished. That infernal emotion called love is a curse, not a gift.”

“You ignoramus! It’s only a curse because you’re used to calling it that. Because you’re determined to call it that. Because you’re scared to think of it any other way. You’re too busy obsessing over what you can’t have, that you don’t stop for one second to recognize if you even want it. You’re too busy lamenting to ask yourself the question you deserve: Who sees you?”

“What the Fates does that mean?”

“Who truly sees you, Anger? All of you?”

“You…I don’t…How would you know?! You’re infatuated. You have an idea of me, a vision, a fantasy. You don’t know the real me. You don’t understand!”

“Oh, I—,” Merry chuckles sharply, “—I understand. I understand it’s easier to blame everyone else for holding you back. It’s easier for the God of Anger to be angry at everyone else, than to be angry at himself.”

She bumps past him and hastens from the rooftop.

15

Anger

Anger stands rooted to the spot, the spot where he’d kissed her, the spot where he’d stopped kissing her.

The spot where he’d watched her leave.

---