Page 32 of Hunting Harbor

I didn't think it could be like this. I didn't think I'd ever feel... enough. This is everything. I'm full. I'm whole. I'm shameless.

He’s brutal, wild, beautiful, devouring my lips until all I know is his heat, his pressure, his perfect, violent rhythm. He owns me and he knows it. He owns me and I do, too.

And then I'm gone, and he's still there. My world. My perfect, unholy world. I feel it hit him too, sudden and sharp, and hestiffens, pulls me so close I think I'll break, and I hear thethump, thump, thumpof his heart.

“You’re mine, Harbor.”

The sound he makes. I've never heard anything like it. I want to hear it a thousand times. I want to hear it forever.

This is just post sex regret… that’s all this is. I cannot possibly fall for him. He is… dangerous.

And then he's holding me, carrying me to the bed, and I don't want to let him, but I do. I don't want this to be over, and it's not. I don't want it to end. And it won't.

Because he knows what I want.

He knows what I am.

Steps from insanity, surely.

He knows what I'll be, what I already am. And so do I.

Laying me on the bed, he watches me for a moment. Almost as if he is unsure what to do now. Like he wants to ask to stay, but doesn’t know how. But I need time. I need to process what the fuck just happened and why, suddenly, it feels like we’ve done this before. Like I’ve had his cock inside me before. Like he’s not a stranger, but someone that I crave.

Desire.

I push away from him, legs trembling and weak, skin marked with his fingers, his lips, his bruising desire. And I want more. Even now, I want more. Even now, I hate myself for wanting it. My body's wet, aching, filthy. I'm a mess of contradictions, beautiful and sick. The sheets are scratchy as I force myself up against the wall, curling up to hold myself together. I ask for space. I ask for a chance to understand how I loved it so much. He just nods.

His eyes follow me. I feel their weight on every bruise, every place I didn't know could hurt, every inch of me that feels alive for the first time, and I shiver. I wrap my arms around myself, clinging to this new and terrifying truth.

He doesn't push, but he doesn't back off. "I need... I just need a minute," I whisper. I can't meet his gaze. I can’t hold myself together and let him in all at once. It's too much.

As soon as he leaves I slip into the bathroom, closing the door with shaking hands. Not locking it, even though I want to, even though I should.

Not locking it, because maybe I want him to push through and take me again. The thought is a rush. The thought is an anchor.

I turn on the water, the sound almost drowning out the wild rush in my head. Almost. I step in, let it cascade over me, feel it soak into my hair, my skin, the bruises I admire and abhor. They’re beautiful. I hate them. But they look beautiful, turningmy too-pale canvas into something that looks a lot like a field of wildflowers.

His fingerprints bloom dark and tender along my arms, my throat, and I trace them with trembling fingers.

I'm filthy, so filthy, and I wash myself slowly, loving the way the water mixes with him and turns the edges of my mind soft and liquid and warm.

How long will I have before he pulls me back into that world, before I beg him to?

A fluffy towel absorbs the wetness from my skin as I step out, drying myself gently. It’s a few steps to the bed and I slide in.

Half of me feels sick that I didn’t bother to put clothes on. The other half knows that he’s the one who left me all those little gifts back ta my apartment. The one who left the mess between my legs.

And I want that again. There’s something about being helpless, allowing someone to infiltrate all sense in my body and push out the fear that’s addicting.

I should lock the door. I should lock my heart, my body, my sick and wanting need.

But I don’t.

I don’t know how long I can last like this, unsure if I want him to stay away, knowing that I don't.This is Stockholm Syndrome, and I should see a psychologist and perhaps be locked in an asylum.But even as I think it, all that goes through my mind is that I hoped he’d find me there and take me. I curl into a ball, into a mess of limbs and thoughts and crazy, beautiful, awful desire. I fall into sleep that’s too full of dreams, too empty of him.

The bed dips behind me, the creak of the springs loud, and in the haze of dirty dreams and shock, I welcome his presence. The mattress groans under us. Cold air hits my skin as he lifts the blankets and grunts, his hands trailing my bare skin.

But he doesn’t make a move. He just plays with my hair, his fingertips tickling my shoulder before running down my arm.

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