Page 8 of Sullied Saints

Then we're tumbling back onto the bed, the room dark, shuttered and unknown, off-limits to me until she turned out to be a psychopath, and since then, somewhere to avoid. Right now, however, I don’t care whose this bed is, or where I am. Dirk’s fingers hook in the belt loops of my pants and tug them off my legs, underwear included. My oversized shirt bunches up around my waist. I've already undone his belt as he shifts onto his knees between my legs.

I need to feel his skin, to feel those finely muscled abs and chest responding under my touch. Lifting my shirt up, I pull from the bottom as I lie back on the bed, Dirk between my thighs. But I only get the shirt halfway over my head, my arms crossed, when his hand weighs down on my forearms, trapping me like that, barred and tangled in my shirt, blinded as the material covers my eyes still. My mouth comes open, the delicious thrill tingling down between my thighs as he leans down and the coarse material of his jeans brushes my sensitive skin. Even though I expect it and long for it in this moment, his mouth is still a shock, rough against mine, stubble scraping my cheek.

I'd have him in my hand now if he didn't have me trapped. Pressing so that the shirt slides off my head, he lets me see again, but keeps my arms pinned. Black hair hanging down, Dirk's brow is low over eyes dark with lust. I've never seen him like this, and he's suddenly someone different and unknown, almost intimidating. With his free hand, he's reaching back, edging his jeans down. I watch eagerly, biting my lower lip, craning to see his cock in the shadow he casts over both of us from the open door. There's a tinge of iron in the air. Olivia's precious bed will be ruined. But that’s the point, isn't it?

I see his shape in his own hand, and I long to wrap my fingers around it, to feel the smoothness sliding over steel. Wriggling, needing, I try to pull my arms free, but Dirk only leans heavier on my wrists, and I still, panting as he lingers, his head tilted to watch as he uses his grip on himself to rub his head along my slick wetness.

There's no going back from this. Possibly, it will destroy us for good. "Wait…" I start, reluctantly. But I needn't have bothered trying to control myself, as our breath mingles so heavily that my words are lost. I don’t want any of this to stop; I can’t convince myself any longer that this is wrong. Every effort to not see him this way over the years is suddenly wasted, and I couldn’t care about anything less right now.

He's pressing now, finding the point of resistance at my entrance and lingering there, a pressure low in me that makes me writhe with anticipation, squeezing him, trying to pull my arms free as he poises over me. My desire is to run my hands down his body, to dig my nails in and arch against him, but my all-consuming need is for him to fill me.

Frowning in concentration, his eyes come back up to my face. I see no uncertainty there, no going back. Only intense need, almost wonder. Maybe he never expected to be here, and he certainly didn’t expect it today. "I'm not going to ask you if you're sure,” he says.

The butterflies in my stomach do a flip. "Don't," I agree.

His breath comes out in a grunt as I purposely tighten around the head of his cock again, to be rewarded by him sinking against me, into me, filling me in a full, drawn-out thrust. My voice catches in my throat, my body curling against him and around him except where his weight holds me open.

When he twitches himself that bit deeper, finally I cry aloud, utterly vulnerable to him in this moment. It’s like I’ve always needed him, like I’ve been waiting for him all along.

When he starts thrusting, my hips meeting him of their own accord, I can't think, can't even control my voice as I moan with his every movement inside me, as he grates hard and hungry against my sex. "Dirk," I gasp. "Please." I can't articulate it, but I need to touch him. It’s impossible to get even thoughts aligned, much less words out.

He relents, tugging my shirt the rest of the way off my arms, and immediately my palms find his skin slicked with sweat, the curve of his shoulder, my nails biting him as we wrap around each other completely. Dirk bites me in return, sucking on the side of my neck and sending a new sensation to merge with the rest, threatening to overwhelm my body, almost shocking me into near-orgasmic levels of ecstasy. Everything feels so good that I don't want it to end, and yet to stay on this high feels like it could be fatal.

"Fuck, Dirk, I can't…" I mean to saytake it, but he knows already, and his hand slides under my hip, around the curve of my ass, lifting me hard against him and sliding us further up the bed, then holding me like that, flush against him, unable to escape his friction along the front of my body, or the building pressure of him inside me.

"I can't," I gasp again, gripping the curve of his arm, leg hitched over his hip. "I'm going to…"

His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my chin back as his tongue slides along my bottom lip. "Then fucking do it," he growls.

And that’s it for me, I'm broken, destroyed, clenching and unclenching around him even just in the anticipation, with the climax itself rising to such heights to be a frightening thing. Then it comes, his pace constant, making the build-up lengthen and grow until I finally cry out, clutching him and tightening one final time to hold and lose myself in the pleasure so intense it is a most exquisite pain.

Dirk's breath is harsh against my ear, a weight and a heat over me, making me feel every excruciatingly pleasurable moment until the aftershocks twitch my body and the awareness of anything else returns.

I feel him about to pull back out, and I stop him with a grip on his hip and desperate words. "No," I breathe, "I want to feel you when you…"

"I don't have any condoms."

"It's okay," I say quickly, breathlessly. And indeed, blood smears the sheets.

That's all the convincing he needs, and he's back inside me again, thrusting harder, longer, jolting me with the strength of his need. "Yes, yes," I moan, and this time it's his curse muttered as I feel him throb inside me, thrusts losing rhythm as he groans, bitten-off sounds as his body jolts. Then his pleasure washes through me too, a storm that I must wrap around him to bear.

***

I listen to the shower turn on, the old pipes creaking through the ceiling.

My skin is still damp, and find I can't stay still, my body still giddy from the feel, the reality of him. I should have basked in it for longer, lain there on Dirk’s arm, but I couldn't bear the possibility he might finish his goodbye.

And I can't bear it anymore now, waiting for him to come out with post-coital clarity and tell me that was a mistake. I've only delayed the inevitable conversation, and at what cost? Finding I can't stay still until he comes out of my shower, having washed me off, I grab my keys. Before I leave, I scribble a fast note:Had to go out.Be back soon.I hesitate then. Should I say goodbye?See you?It’s already clearly a lie. Where the hell would I have to go? But I can't stay here.

There seems to be a path our passion took through the apartment, decor I don't even recall going near knocked askew or smashed on the floor. Olivia's bed is a mess, all smeared blood and critically crumpled sheets. I settle for scribbling my name at the bottom of the note—as though it could be anyone else—and leave before I hear the shower shut off.

I'm running away, I know that. But what else can I do? I can't stand to lose him, can't stand to see the pity in his eyes as I ask if he’s still going to transfer. By the time I’ve evaded any reporters lingering outside my building and I'm standing at the supermarket door, annoying the shoppers actually here with a purpose, I come to terms with how stupid I am. A buzzing in my pocket annoys me enough to pay attention to it, and I realise I’ve thrown on the pants that had my pager in them.

Tomorrow. Needler Interrogation.

Fuck. Looks like Tawill hasn’t totally cut me loose after all. I run into someone with how fast I turn around, intending to run all the way back. But by the time I get through my front door, the apartment is empty, and my note is staring at me from where I left it.

***

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