Page 58 of Thorns from the Fall

“Hatred’s found a home here, Gwyn. There’s no tossing it aside,” he says, and he’s using both hands to hold me and grip me and guide my body as he fucks me harder than I’ve ever been fucked in my life. The sounds he coaxes from me are barbaric as he pulls out entirely before slamming back in. I wonder if it hurts him too, as he hits the deepest parts of me. The pain reverberates through my core, but it feels good. It feelsoverwhelming. It’s all there is and all I need and all I want. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don’t ask him to stop.

I nearly slide down the tile, scrambling for purchase. Roman adjusts, hauling me up to wrap my arms around his neck as he slams us against the wall. He’s unable to move so drastically in this position, motions slowing as he still manages to push deep. Fuck if I don’t love every moment of it.

He’s biting my neck again, and it’s probably for the best that I can't see his face because stupid words I should never say bubble up my throat as he brings me to the brink. Silly ideas that I’ve encountered after a sleepless night dance on the tip of my tongue, and I bite them back as he takes from my body what he needs and gives me everything I’ve been looking for. He breaks free from my flesh, letting out a breathy moan that gives me goosebumps as he continues to piston into me.

But then he slips his hand between us, thumb finding my clit, and I bite him just to keep myself from speaking it all out loud.

Because he won’t believe it.

Because hewillbelieve it, but it won’t stop him from hating me.

Because I deserve his hatred.

He groans, slowing down, allowing himself to push deep and hold there. Pull out and repeat, making sure I feel every fucking inch as I take him. His blood tastes the same as it did before, and being this close, being so fully enveloped by him and his taste and his smell and his body, makes my errant thoughts seem like a recitation of a prayer. I’m nearly unraveled by his thumb’s firm ministrations against my clit, and I must lose my mind because I’m opening my mouth when I should take a vow of silence instead.

“Some of it was true,” I murmur against his warm skin, praying to his rage and his violence and hoping for an act ofcontrition that will absolve me of some of the guilt I carry. “Most of it.”

At first I don’t think he hears me, his stuttering breath matching each thrust of his body into mine, but when I start to repeat myself, the hand he was using to bring me to orgasm comes up between us, and he presses it against my mouth as he continues to fuck me—harder now than before.

“I don’t fucking care, Gwyn,” he says between thrusts. “This isn’t some sort of homecoming. This is a goddamn death march.”

And then there are no more words, no more pauses, just swift and thorough strokes, bringing me to the edge and pushing me over into the abyss.

22

ROMAN

The factI don’t feel any shame right now is a fucking problem. What the hell was I thinking, following Gwyn in here once I realized it was her on the dance floor? The blonde hair had thrown me off, but I’m only slightly irritated I could still tell it was her from across the room. Her hair color is the only thing about her that’s changed. She’s still soft and sweet, still fucked in the head, and I still want to kill her. Turning toward the conveniently located urinal, I take a piss, mindful of the split stream. I do my best to ignore the woman pulling her shirt out of the sink.

“Talk about post nut clarity,” Gwyn says as she leans forward to look in the mirror. Mascara streaks down her face and under any other circumstance, I’d be hard again because of it.

“What?” I ask, not sure what the fuck she’s saying. She has a hair tie on her wrist, and I take it before she has a chance to stop me.

“Hey!” she says, but I’ve already tossed my hair up. “You and that slutty little man bun, I swear to god,” she mumbles.

“Slutty man bun?” I ask. “Post nut clarity? What the fuck are you on about?”

After tugging her shirt over her head, she wets a wad of toilet paper beneath the faucet. Scrubbing at the makeup, she leans closer to the mirror as she inspects the dark trails on her skin. Her shirt is tight and low-cut, and her tits look great as usual in the mirror’s reflection.

“It’s that moment after you come, and it hits you just how much of an idiot you are.” She starts to ramble, waving a hand at me as she continues wiping her face. “Because it’s you and you have that stupid face and your slutty, little man bun. You’re just…” she sighs. “Impossible.” She turns to the side trying to catch what the back of her head looks like in her reflection. Gwyn runs her fingers through her hair, attempting to tame the tangles made when I had her pinned up against the wall.

I don’t bother asking about the blonde because I don’t fucking care. It doesn’t matter either that I prefer the black.

“I assume you feel it too?” she asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“It was inevitable,” I admit, and I immediately regret it. It sounds like a kindness. It sounds like I’m commiserating with her. And that’s certainly not the case.

Thankfully, Gwyn stays silent. She turns on the faucet once more, wetting her fingertips before rubbing away dried blood on her lips.

I don’t know why the fuck I feel like I have to say something.

“But this, this doesn’t?—”

“Change anything. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Good.”

She reaches for the paper towel dispenser and finds it empty. “Fuck me. ‘Need change for the machine?’” she says in a deep voice, crossing her arms and lowering her brows. With a jut of her chin toward the old-school condom dispenser, she scowls at me. I can’t help but snort.

---