Page 65 of Torn

Anger raises the album sleeve. “I have something for you.”

I have a lot for you. If you’ll only look at me.

She doesn’t, only hikes her chin higher. Anger’s an idiot, like she’d said. But his tongue snags, too tangled to speak further, so he sets the vinyl onto her player and lets the music do the rest.

Instruments, both natural and synthetic, swell into the room. Merry’s eyes shimmer, because she remembers this record.

Anger ventures closer. He squats at the side of the bed, watching her until she huffs and glances at him like an affronted goddess.

And he mouths,I’m sorry.

And her face crumbles.

When she scoots backward in silent invitation, his soul rejoices. Her forgiveness is extraordinary, exceeding any measure of praise that he’s received in the Peaks. The magnitude of Merry welcoming him into her sanctuary, into her bed, startles Anger. He’s riveted, honored.

Side by side, they rest on the blankets and pillows. In the next track, a piano sweeps around an acoustic hum, and then a voice croons, a tendril of longing threading through the lyrics.

Merry sighs like a breeze, stirring him. “Do you hear that? That’s humanity. It’s rage and yearning, the emotions elevated in a way that we can all understand, if we’re stout enough. Do you hear it, Anger?”

Her voice waters like a tear, drowning him. “Can you hear the capacity? What we feel and do isn’t perfect, what they feel and do isn’t perfect, but that’s what makes it powerful. We’re listening to free will.”

She breaks like glass, cutting him. “Can you hear it? Because if you can, it means we all feel the same things. Can you hear how alike we are?”

Her, holding back tears. That’s what he hears.

Anger can’t take it anymore. He rotates, his fingers seizing her hips, his mouth arching for hers.

For a scant second, Merry hesitates. Then on a helpless cry, she twists in his arms, her lips meeting him halfway.

In surrender, they kiss.

Anger’s hands rush into her hair, clasping the sides of her face while he pecks her lips, teasing them once, twice, three times. Merry whimpers for more, and he groans for more. The noises converge, opening the floodgates, his tongue parting the seam of her mouth.

When they make contact, slick and soft, they shudder. He licks through her, his tongue thrusting and plying, coaxing a moan from them both. They lay on their sides, their heads sliding at opposite angles, allowing their mouths to lock and undulate at a languid, devouring pace.

Anger nips her upper lip. And she flicks her tongue across his teeth.

And then more.

He discovers every fold and yield of her mouth. She rides every swipe and stroke of his.

It’s intoxicating. And it’s right. It feels so right.

Fates, he feels the kiss with his entire body, every bone and joint straining to break free, to burst from his flesh. His clothes rub against hers. The cursed garments are suddenly too tight, too restrictive, clinging to the point of annoyance. He wants to shred the cotton, the arch of Merry’s torso intensifying the impulse.

He escalates the kiss, burrowing into her mouth, tipping her head back. Merry opens wider for him, fissures of pleasure skittering from the back of her throat.

As if it’s the most instinctive thing, she rolls back. And he rolls forward, flopping across the bed.

The blankets rumple over the mattress. The room spins, and Anger’s sense vanishes, and there’s only her. There’s only Merry beneath him, sprawled under him, spreading under him.

He lands on top, her limbs hitching over his waist, catching his hips between her thighs. The nightgown sighs up her legs, baring the ovals of her backside, the lace of her panties. That slit of material brushes against his groin, hardening him anew.

Delicate cloth scrapes against rough cloth. Their pelvises rock, their bodies entangling.

Almighty Fates. What’s happening?

He’s panting, and she’s panting with him. That’s what’s happening.

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