Page 84 of Refrain

Is it that late already? I glance over my shoulder and spot the dark sky visible beyond the windows. I didn’t even notice night falling during my trek across town. I’m that desperate. That needy.

“Where?”

If he’s surprised that I’m curious, he doesn’t mention it. “Davey’s. It’s on Fourth. Not far from here. I guess someone else can take your spot tonight.”

I nod and then exit onto the street. It takes me an hour to track the club down, which is tucked between a warehouse and an alleyway. The pulse of the music is audible a block down, and when I finally approach the battered door serving as an entrance, the bouncer doesn’t even bother asking me for ID.

Apparently,this isn’t the kind of establishment that gives a damn about the legality of their clientele. Inside is a mismatched cross between what appears to be a makeshift bar at one end anda full-blown club at the other. It’s packed, filled wall to wall with sweating bodies gyrating to the deafening bass.

It doesn’t take me long to find Darcy. She sways wildly to the beat, catching eyes from even the drunkest spectator. Surprisingly, she isn’t approached. It’s as if even the sleaziest pervert can sense the watchful blue eyes on her from a corner. I catch glimpses of him at first through breaks in the crowd and the sparse illumination of pulsing strobe lights. He’s red one instant. In shadow the next. It’s a haunting transformation that has him shifting from demon to angel with every step I take. He’s a demon when I push past a man in a wife-beater, grinding against a half-naked blonde. He’s an angel again when I’m just beyond his reach. The next moment, he’s the devil.

I feel him before I register reaching for him. His hand, scorching hot. His fingers greedily lacing with mine. His startled breath on my throat as I step in closer. Closer than he’s comfortable with. More distance than I need.

“Hey…” His voice sounds rougher against my ear, loud to combat the noise around us.

I can sense the questions he doesn’t bother to ask. He can feel the gun still tucked inside my pocket—but he doesn’t move. Not until I take his hand and lead him deeper into the center of the dance floor.

I’ve never danced away from a stage. I’ve never willingly danced with someone. Not like this. He takes the place of the pole, his hands on my waist when I move them there, his body like an anchor. I stop thinking. I stop feeling. I just move, breathing in time with the pulsing beat. I let him set the pace. I let him inhale me. With every dose of me he takes, I steal double the amount from him.

I know that this won’t last. That it can’t. The fear only drives me faster. I grind on him. I know that it’s more than he can stand. More than he can take. Maybe I want him to push me off.

He doesn’t. He lets me touch him as I slide my hands down hischest. I glance up and find him already staring down at me, his eyes unfocused but still so damn piercing. I don’t know who initiates it, but the kiss is deeper than the others. Harsher. More desperate.

My fingers are in his hair. His claw at me through the fabric of my clothing, touching, owning. Ineedto be owned. He doesn’t resist when I pull back and drag him through the crowd. I need to be somewhere—anywhere—away from the people, and the noise, and the watchful eyes. I just need him.

We barge into a bathroom. Men’s or women’s? I’m not sure which. It’s cramped and filthy with toilet paper wadded on the floor in dubious puddles. He tenses when he follows me inside, and something I can’t even decipher tears from my throat. Maybe I beg him. Plead. Moan. Eitherway,he reacts by backing me into a corner by the sinks. I flail for leverage and haul myself up onto the rim of one.

My heart thunders when he steps between my legs, his eyes on mine. We share a revelation without words—This can go however far he wants it to.

I have to grit my teeth against any sound when his hands go for my sweatpants. He peels them down almost reverently before sliding his hand between my legs. With every brush of hisfingers,he sends me on a slow, gradual high.

But it’s not enough.

The moment I see himreach for his jeans, I lunge forward and help him tear them open. His boxers next. My knees clamp over his hips to drive him closer—drive him in—and when he does, I don’t give a damn who might hear me.

It doesn’t last long. I’m too wet. He’s too raw. Too perfect. Too wound up. The first few thrusts slam me back against the streaked mirror, drawing sounds from me I’ve never heard myself make. He goes slower after that, savoring the connection rather than striving for friction. It’s so damn considerate that Ican’t take it. I come with only the grinding of his pelvis against my clit for stimulation, dragging him down with me.

I’m distantly aware of a door opening and a stumbling figure spotting us there. They shout something, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Espi to give a shit.

His eyes seem so damn blue in this moment. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I’ve never seen anything more dangerous.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Maybe it’s only a minute later that he finally pulls away. I wince as I slide from the sink. The faucet bit into my back, and I move woodenly to adjust my clothes. I’ve only managed to straighten the hem of my borrowed shirt before his hands are there to assist. He dresses me slowly, reverently. His touch alone can make rough cotton seem like silk, transporting me far beyond our filthy, reeking surroundings.

My fingers shake as I help him adjust his pants in return. He won’t let me pull the zipper, but my rebellious fingers linger over his waistband as he leads the way back out into the club. We hunt aimlessly through the crowd for Darcy and spend the rest of the night watching her from the sidelines. He doesn’t touch me, and I don’t touch him. He doesn’t have to for his presence to resonate within my body anyway, more potent than any drug.

We don’t makeit back to the bar. Instead, I follow him to his house, where he doesn’t even bother to switch the lights on once we’re inside. With the prompting of one wordless plea, he strips me down right here in the middle of the kitchen, and we fuck on the floor. It’s sloppy. Messy. Our bodies don’t know how to meld, so we make them fit.

I hook my knees around his waist, driving him into me, clawing at his back, moaning in his ear. There’s no fear as to whatmight happen if I orgasm too soon—or if I don’t. There’s just feeling, sensation, breathing. And then he’s spilling himself inside me, grunting with the force of it, and I come undone.

We lie hereafterward, a pile of sweating limbs, when we should redress and regroup. Reality lurks beyond the stained walls of his house, threatening to swallow us whole.

But I’m weak. He’s tired. We sleep in bits and pieces, and then we fuck again, slower, harder. It’s only when his mouth latches onto my throat that I realize it’s notreallyfucking, at least not as I know it. He’s not shoving his cock into me, using my body as a hole to get himself off. With every touch, he’s making me… Making me feel. Making me moan. Cry out. Scream.

In his own way, maybe he’s making something close to love. Making hate.

My battered, bruised soul swells and shatters beneath his ministrations. I’m the bloated, grotesque remains of someone once living, and he showers that broken corpse with worshiping fingers, groaning at the feel of my skin. He does his best to come only when he knows I’ll follow.

It’s too much.

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