Page 66 of Torn

He surges up and tugs off his shirt, and she reaches for his skin. And she touches him, running her fingers over his abdomen.

Alarms wail in the distance, somewhere in the city, somewhere down below. But piano keys and guitar strings push through the cacophony, and Anger doesn’t have the foggiest clue what heat feels like, yet the air is thick and loud. And he wonders if this is what it means to swelter.

He chases the sensation. Dipping his head to her neck, he sucks the sweetened flesh until Merry jolts off the bed, her fingernails raking his bare spine. He keeps following these ministrations, the enthusiastic movements beneath him, losing himself in both.

He treks open-mouthed kisses to the basin of her clavicles, enjoying the chain reaction across her skin. Then he descends from the heavens to earth, such a real place to be. His lips glide from Merry’s collarbones to the scoop between her breasts, a set of pert nipples pebbling under the nightgown, ripening for his tongue.

Yet he bypasses the temptation, sinking to her navel. Down, down, down to where her thighs rise around his head. He glances up for permission as she balances on her elbows.

Rosy pools surface on her cheeks. And she nods.

His fingers disappear into the nightgown. The panties slip over her quavering knees and ankles, puddling on the floor.

The sight of her drives the oxygen from his lungs. His eyes trace every swollen part, every beautiful crease and clench. The air is even thicker in the cove of her body, which encapsulates him as his hand sifts through the dark curls, unveiling that tiny, sprouting peak.

And then he bends his head.

His hair must tickle her skin, because she chuckles—until she stops chuckling. The moment Anger’s tongue flicks against Merry, she crumbles on the bed, a stunned noise springing out of her. Her hands grab his scalp, her waist rising in heedless offering.

All reason drains from his mind, replaced by a flux of blood in his shaft. Anger cups her hips, securing her in place. His mouth grazes the opening inside her, swabbing at her flesh, lapping her up. She tastes like starlight and syrup.

Like sex. Like love.

It’s never been like this before. He’s never made a home with someone.

So he makes sure she knows that, sweeping his tongue over her, teasing and then plunging. Merry squirms above him, finally speechless.

But not soundless.

At last, he straps his lips around her, drawing on the little kernel and giving a gentle tug. And with every single feminine chant, a guttural noise rips from Anger, and he works her even more. His mouth cinches, increasing the pressure with each of those candied cries, which knot and coil into the air.

This female, this woman, this goddess. She’s everything, all wetness and wanting, spreading around him. She holds his tongue inside her, her body reeling over the blankets, and he doesn’t know where they are anymore, and it doesn’t matter anymore, because nothing matters anymore. Nothing but this.

He wants her to shout, just like his heart is shouting.

Anger hardly cares what’s become of him. All he cares about is what’s happening to Merry.

The neon fixtures flash, the record spins in a vortex, the instruments writhe. All the while, her body flutters, trembling and lurching toward the suction of his mouth.

And she’s his. All his.

Merry, he thinks.

“Anger,” she cries.

That’s it. That’s desire. That’s being desired.

And now he knows what that feels like.

18

Merry

A chorus crescendos in her head. To be precise, it’s the third stanza, instruments accelerating and colliding, the music blowing to the rafters and then scattering into fragments. The climax of sound whirls at the center of her, then floods her arms and limbs.

Merry’s vertebrae are about to snap. She arches from the mattress, and her knees shake, and some other noise spasms from her mouth. She’s a bursting star, unraveling against the flexing, rhythmic plank of Anger’s tongue.

A million light years later, or maybe milliseconds later, the instruments fade. An overflow of sensations ebbs, the record player sliding to a halt. The rapture mellows, her mewls trailing behind, aftershocks twitching down her calves.

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