Page 90 of My Lovely Tragedy
Water splashes down, catching on Brooklyn’s upper lip. His eyes crack open at the sensation, and our gazes meet. Blues the color of a rich sky search the hollow depths of garnet, and for the first time in history, they meld together and cast a hue unlike anything ever seen.
Our own creation. The most transcendent shade of deep purple—and that’s the color that stains my walls. Him and me, muddled with it and every shade of gray in-between.
His pink tongue swipes out, dragging along his cracked lip, and I know it must sting—but my darling does love a bit of pain.
I follow the path it takes, slow and tantalizing and so, so tempting. I bite down on my own, if only to localize the ache churning in my chest. Brooklyn’s thighs flex. His heels dig deeper. Neck filled with bruised flesh exposed.
All for me. To take and monopolize and consume.
White strikes across my blurred vision as our bodies slide together faster, harder. So hard I bellow at every collision of our bodies. My erection throbs, confused at the pain and liking it. Brooklyn mewls, his mouth back to sucking at my Adam’s apple, a sharp, throbbing pull that drags me beneath the surface.
I reach down and curl my fingers around his thigh, digging my thumb just beneath the curve of his buttock to push. He grunts softly as I bring his leg to his chest and drag his calf over my left shoulder, tugging the pant leg of his sweats as far down his thigh as the material will let me.
His knee grazes the side of my face, and I turn toward it to drag my lips over the bone, then nip at it before moving halfway down his calf and back up. A trail of wet kisses and blushed marks in my wake.
Brooklyn writhes, eyes nearly closed as he watches me worship his body. Because that’s what he deserves—to be worshiped every day forever.
Open mouthed kisses and drags of my tongue. Saliva tinged in blood and sorrow. Regret and pleas of forgiveness I don’t deserve.
“So beautiful,” I whisper against his knee as I roll my hips against his backside. His erection twinges against the stretched fabric, dampened with his desperation. His fingers twitch where they bite into my forearms, chains wrapped chaotically. I watch more lines bloom, feel their red-hot presence.
“Fuck… please,” he manages to croak between sobs, head thrashing back and forth. Lost and roaring in painful pleasure. Face scrunched, muscles locked, rippling under the tension of each shallow breath.
All ready to be undone with a single touch.
“Lovely boy,” I coo, eyes never leaving the sanctuary of his mouth as I bring our torsos together again, severing the last of the space between us. I release my hold on his leg, but he keeps it curled over my trapezius, digging his heel into my shoulder blade in an attempt to gain more friction.
I roll my head to the side as our lengths finally slide together again, searing and hard as granite, yet as smooth as carved marble.
Brooklyn’s fingers scrape along my nape, tugging at my hair. Pulling me away, dragging me closer. My eyes roll back as I breathe into him, savoring it all as we burn our way to the end.
The sun draws nearer, closer than ever before. Its rays are scorching, melting my own wings—fashioned from every inch of Brooklyn, and his from me.
Wax melts, each drip a searing point on bared flesh. Pants and breathless pleas blur from his mouth and mine. It rains down upon us as the air whips past, harsh and caressing. Brutal and welcoming.
A graceful zephyr as we plunge into the water.
A scream. A breathless gasp.
Floating and drowning, we swallow water—together.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
BROOKLYN
Druggingwaves crash over the furthest recesses of my mind. Their pull is intoxicating. A slow, sensual drag to the surface, but with the first licks of oxygen, I recede. Terrified. Confused and aching.
But it’s the throb and the comfort of pressure that eventually drags me out.
Tobias is the first thing I see—the first thing I feel. Then, it’s my arms, pulsing in sync with my heart. Heavy and gnawing and real.
And together, it’s almost enough to pull me back under.
His breath feels like waves against my skin. Hot, then cold in their retreat. I count each one, time my own so they match with perfect synchronization. I blink, then close my eyes when tears slip from the corners.
I feel his skin against mine. Stuck together with blood and sweat and tears. I drag my thumb over his ribs, counting each elongated bone. I trace the space between.
He feels me—I know he does. But neither of us speak, knowing when that happens, it will implode. I don’t want that, and I don’t think he does either.
