Page 102 of Breaking Ophelia
He looks at me, dark eyes bright. “I fucking love you, O.”
“Ditto,” I say.
We sit there, catching our breath, until the sun shifts and the light breaks through the glass in new patterns.
He keeps his arms wound around me, his hands roaming my skin. We have all the time in the world to just enjoy this moment. Then he climbs on top of me, sliding his cock into my still soaked pussy.
Slowly, he drags the tip of his nose up my neck, inhales, then presses his mouth to the place where my pulse beats loudest. He sucks a mark there, slow, deep, and the ache goes all the waydown to my core. I make a sound and tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling until his head tilts back and I can see the rawness in his eyes.
He grins. “You want more?”
I answer by grinding on him, rolling my hips until he groans. He’s hard as a rock, throbbing, and every time I shift, it’s like my body can’t get enough. I hook my ankles behind his ass, locking us together.
“Greedy,” he says, but his hands are already under my shirt, palming my breasts, pinching until I yelp. He covers my mouth with his, devours me, tongue slick and ruthless. I bite his lower lip, draw blood.
He shoves the bench back, so hard it skids on the tile, and lifts me in his arms. I wrap around him, holding tight, feeling the sweat and dirt mixing on our skin. He sits me down on the potting table, pushing aside seed trays and garden tools until there’s just enough space for the two of us. I feel the cold edge of a trowel against my thigh, the grit of soil grinding into my ass. It hurts. It’s perfect.
He moves inside me, slow at first, then faster, every thrust making the whole fucking table rattle. I grab his shoulders, dig my nails in, and drag them down his spine until I feel the wet bloom of blood under my fingers. He hisses, then bites my neck again, marking me as his.
He fucks me harder, hips snapping, arms caging me in. I love the way he gets when he’s like this—out of control, almost scared of what he’ll do, but unable to stop. He’s so careful with me the rest of the time, but here, now, he can break me if he wants to.
And I want him to.
I claw at his back again, rake my teeth down his throat, leave a trail of red. His hand wraps around my neck, squeezing until I can only breathe through a pin hole. My legs start shaking as my core tightens and the wave starts to approach. He groans, shudders, then slams into me one last time and comes, heat flooding me until I’m shaking again, the air shattered with both our moans.
My pussy is aching, both in pleasure and pain, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’d fuck him a hundred times a day if that’s what we needed.
When he finally lets go, he doesn’t step back. He grabs me and sits in the dirt, pulling me into his lap, cradling me.
We sit there, sticky and filthy and perfect, until the sweat cools and the heat starts to fade.
“Cigarette?” I say, half-joking.
He laughs, then actually fishes out a pack from his pocket. “You’re such a bad influence.”
I pluck one from the pack, stick it between my lips, and wait for him to light it. He does, eyes never leaving mine, and the way he looks at me—hungry, proud, almost feral—makes me flush all over again.
I take a drag, exhale, then hand it back to him.
“You know,” he says, “I always thought I’d end up alone. Or dead.”
“Still might,” I remind him, but I nudge his thigh with my knee, softer than I mean to.
He grins, takes another pull, then sets the cigarette on the lip of the table.
“Not if I can help it,” he says.
There’s a silence, but it’s the good kind. The kind where you don’t have to fill it with anything, because everything that needs to be said is already floating in the air between you.
I reach for his hand, the one with the tattoo crawling up his wrist, and turn it palm up. There are marks there, old and new. I trace them with my thumb, one by one, memorizing the map of him.
“You get any sleep last night?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Enough.”
“Liar.”
He shrugs again, but doesn’t argue.
