Page 41 of Seneca
He worked my panties down with one hand, the other never leaving my wrists. I was wet, soaking, and the cold of the safe house vanished under the heat of his palm. He slid two fingers in, hard, and I arched off the wall, legs shaking. He curled them, found the spot that made my brain go dark, and rubbed circles with his thumb until I was panting.
He let go of my arms, and I clawed at his jeans, desperate to get at him. I fumbled the buckle, but he slapped my hands away, did it himself. His cock sprang out, already hard, already leaking. It looked angry, purple, and throbbing. I reached for it, wrapped both hands around the shaft, and squeezed. He groaned, loud, and I felt the tremor go through him.
He picked me up by the ass and pinned me to the wall, his cock lining up with my entrance. “Ready?” he asked, voice a guttural growl.
“Since the bakery,” I said, and bit his shoulder, hard enough to taste salt and metal.
He thrust in, and the stretch was perfect. I yelped, dug my nails into his back, and rode the shock of it until it felt good, then great, then necessary. He set a brutal pace, fucking me into the sheetrock, his hands gripping my thighs so tight I knew they’d bruise. Every movement was desperate, as if he could fuck the memory of Catherine out of both of us.
It almost worked.
He kissed me again, slower this time, and when his tongue slid over my teeth, I felt the shift. The violence was still there, but now it wanted to protect as much as destroy. He cupped my face, thumb smearing the lipstick I’d tried to keep on all day. He murmured things I couldn’t hear, just the vibration of his voice in my mouth and throat.
He came first, a shudder that started in his chest and radiated out. He bit down on my neck to keep from screaming, and the pain mixed with the pulse of his cock inside me, hot and thickand endless. He kept moving, kept fucking, until I came too, shattering against him, my legs twitching as he held me up.
He slid out, set me down. I collapsed against the wall, skirt bunched at my waist, panties somewhere around my ankle. He zipped up, then pulled me into his lap as he sat on the battered couch, one arm around my shoulders, the other stroking my thigh.
We didn’t speak for a long time. The only sounds were our breathing and the distant rumble of bikes on the horizon. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the heart I’d almost destroyed. He stroked my hair, gentle now, and I let myself believe for a second that this could be real.
“Still want the three of us?” he asked, voice soft and dangerous.
I nodded. “If she’ll have us.”
He didn’t answer, just held me closer, his lips pressed to my temple.
***
I woke up to the smell of old vinyl and Seneca’s sweat. The couch was a biohazard, probably older than both of us combined. I lay with my face pressed into his chest, hair stuck to my lips, lipstick smeared halfway to my ear. It should have felt like shame, but it was just another layer of skin.
He was awake, staring at the water-stained ceiling, eyes moving like he was reading a verdict in the peeling paint. His hand stroked my back in long, absent sweeps, not sexual, just mechanical.
I propped myself up, arms shaky, legs still jelly from before. The room was half-dark, sunlight leaking through the gaps in the blinds. Dust motes floated in the air, catching the morning with all the grace of a ruined snow globe. The old fridge tickedand hummed. Somewhere outside, a dirt bike gunned its engine, then faded away. Safe house, my ass.
I said, “She’ll answer if I call.”
He didn’t look at me. “She always answers.”
My phone was on the side table, black screen, one percent battery left. I could feel the weight of it from across the room. I imagined Catherine somewhere in her father’s compound, surrounded by men who’d kill for her, but lonelier than anyone alive.
“We could be good together,” I said, hating the tremble in my voice. “All three of us. It doesn’t have to be a competition.”
He snorted, the sound equal parts derision and longing. “You think she’ll just take us both back?”
I shrugged and tried for careless, but failed. “She’s a Bellini. She’ll do whatever gets her the most control.”
That made him smile, real and raw. “You never stop working the angle, do you?”
“Neither do you,” I said.
He pulled me closer, arm tight around my ribs, his chin brushing my scalp. For a second, it felt like home.
“Go ahead,” he said, voice barely audible over the fridge hum. “Call her.”
I slid off his lap and reached for the phone. My hands shook worse than I’d expected. I wiped the lipstick off my mouth with the back of my hand, then brushed my hair into some kind of order. It was stupid, but I wanted to look right, even if she couldn’t see me.
I thumbed open the contacts, found her number, stared at it. The world outside was still, no bikes, no wind, just the hush of everything waiting to see what I’d do.
I looked at Seneca. He met my eyes, face a mask of nothing, but the muscle in his jaw told a different story.
