Page 90 of Torn

The words flow out of him so easily, so simply. “You’re my best friend.”

She emits a sniffly chuckle as she matches his gesture, cradling his face. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. They stay like that, above the Celestial City and beneath the stars, until the ridge gets uncomfortable, causing her to squirm.

Laughing at the mess they’ve made of each other, their hair matted, her garments in disarray, they switch locations. Anger swoops her off the ledge, linking the backs of her knees under his arms, and carries her to the room she made for him.

Sliding open the glass partitions and setting Merry on the bed, Anger climbs in behind her. They shed her dress, then their gloves. Her back folds into his chest, and he bundles her close, toying with the locks that sweep her shoulders. He wishes the layers were longer, just so he’d have more of it to touch. More of her.

He yearns to speak, to flood her with sentiment, but he restrains himself. He doesn’t have that right yet. Not until she goes first.

How he wants her to go first. How he wants to know every brutal and bright thing she feels.

Merry wiggles against him and confesses, “I never wanted to see you again.”

“I know,” he answers against her scalp. “I wanted to give you that, but I failed. I couldn’t let it end that way, with you believing it had all been a farce. Even if you rejected me, I needed you to know that you were worth fighting for. I couldn’t let go without saying that.”

“Which is why I couldn’t make my grand exit after you were finished, you sneaky god. I’ve always wanted to kiss in the rain, but I had no idea the payoff would come at such a cost. Won’t you be groveling some more?”

“As often as I’ll be making love to you.”

Goosebumps ride her flesh, but she’s serious when she says, “Don’t hurt me again. If you do, the storm can have you.”

“I’m sorry, Merry.”

“Me, too,” she murmurs, so low that he almost misses it.

What is she sorry for? For giving him too much credit in the beginning? For not giving herself enough?

They splay their fingers, holding them up to the overcast evening. They whisper, and admit, and share. And after they’ve done that, Merry retreats naked to her garret, then returns with music.

The world settles. For once, he’s home.

Snuggling into him, she chooses a track on her player, and they share earbuds. The instruments flutter into a bittersweet melody. He can’t keep his hands off her, even while he’s listening to the song. Merry exhibits the same impulse as she sketches him, trimming him down to sensations, hardening him.

While the track courses through their ears, she twists just as he reaches for her. She grabs his shoulders just as he grabs her hips, propping her astride his lap. They’re ready, her breasts rubbing across his pectorals, her thighs encasing his.

As he moves, she moves. Still wearing the earbuds, with the music draped around them, they kiss. His tongue fuses with hers, their open mouths hooking together and undulating. A kiss that’s malleable.

A kiss that drizzles down his throat as Merry dips and pulls his Adam’s apple between her lips. His head whips back, and his mouth falls open, a ragged sound dropping out of him.

When she uses her teeth, he’s had it.

He whips Merry onto her back. With a beat of the hips, he plows into her. And without preamble, he begins to thrust.

The mattress springs. The bed frame heaves.

Just like that, his hips lurch and cause their bodies to grind. Merry gives a yelp of pleasure, her fingers mowing through his hair, her limbs clamping around him. She revolves, catching his movements, the percussion agonizing.

But it doesn’t stop. And neither do they.

While listening to the music, they gyrate and cry out, unable to hear themselves with their ears plugged. The track has been fluid, but now it booms, shuddering in tune with their lovemaking. So loudly, as they whisk up a melodic climax of their own.

***

Now he understands why Merry believes in free will, this equilibrium between choice and fate. Now he understands the universal need. If he were mortal, he wouldn’t want to be targeted, to be matched by an invisible deity. Nor would he prefer having his passions or furies steered.

Perhaps he might prefer destiny, but not always. There must be a balance.

But how? How to acquire this? How to reinvent millennia of tradition and myth? How to disturb this lifecycle between deities and mortals without harming it?

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