I can feel her legs twitching, her hands vicious against my skin. The claw marks on my back throb, burning from the sweat dripping along them. She's drawn more blood, a ripped fingernail tearing a slice across my cheek, but I don't bat an eyelash.
She can wound me.
She can scar me.
She can do whatever she wants to me.
I can feel her body taut beneath mine, the onset of another orgasm. She inhales sharply, the breath leaving her lungs in the form of words. "No more."
"What's that?" I ask. "I didn't hear you."
"No more," she says, pushing against my chest. "I… I can't take any—" Her breath hitches. "Anymore."
The word is strangled as she comes, convulsions gripping her body. She clings to me, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. I don't stop. She knows I won't. She starts fighting, hitting me again, biting whatever she can reach, and drawing more blood as I restrain her.
"Say it," I tell her again, knowing I've found her limit, the place where she draws the line. "Say the word."
All I want is for her to admit defeat.
For her to break out of this rut again.
She stares into my eyes, breathless, as I pin her to the bed, her wrists clasped in my hands. Her lip quivers. I have to fight the urge to nibble on it. After a second she exhales sharply, and I close my eyes in anticipation. I can feel my orgasm brewing, straining my muscles.
I'm dangerously close.
Her voice is so low it's nearly drowned out by the sound of sweaty skin slapping, the lone word little more than a whisper. "Yellow."
My eyes open right away. It's instinctual. I rein myself in, moving slower, gentler, as I stare down at her.
"Yellow," she says again, chanting the word. I slow until I damn near stop, but still she says it, again and again.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow.
She knows I won't ignore it.
A shiver rips down my spine as I come, but I get no pleasure from it. I pull out before I'm even finished, letting go of her wrists and moving away. I sit back on my knees, running my hands through my hair and gripping the locks tightly as I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. My cock throbs as my skull pounds. I watch the ceiling fan spin around and around as I breathe deeply, counting to ten.
She fucking yellow'ed me.
Neither of us can win this way.
We're a disaster, a certifiable catastrophe, and there's nothing beautiful about the way we're going. She's trying to be unbreakable but I'm unshakeable. She's going crazy, and I'm already goddamn insane. I clipped my jailbird's wings so she couldn't fly away from me, and then I wonder why the fuck I can't make her soar.
That familiar sound echoes through the room again, like she's sucking in air but still can't breathe. I drop my head, eyes seeking her out just as she starts to cry. This time she doesn't hold back, doesn't try to bury it deep inside. It leaks out, a flood of emotion, the time bomb finally detonating.
I can feel the explosion.
There it is.
BOOM
She sobs so hard she's hyperventilating. I lay down beside her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her toward me, her head on my chest. I expect her to shove away, to lash out, but she just lays there, her body limp and heavy against mine.
She didn't say the word, but she should've.
She meant it.
"Breathe," I whisper into her hair. "Just keep breathing, and it'll be okay."
The man who greets me in the mirror the next morning is shattered.
Red welts and scratches rake down my chest¸ winding up my neck and running down my arms, a few stray ones slashed across my cheeks. My bottom lip is swollen, a small gash faintly visible, the skin discolored. Heavy bags line my eyes from no sleep, my muscles tense, and jaw clenched, as I absently grind my teeth together.
I run my fingertips along a bruise forming around the juncture of my neck and my shoulder, the slight imprint of teeth marks embedded in the skin.
I've killed men with nothing but my bare hands and walked away with fewer injuries.
Sighing, I turn on the bathroom faucet and splash cold water on my face, running my fingers through my hair, before turning the water off again and walking out. I tread lightly on the stairs, heading downstairs in nothing except a pair of sweat pants I grabbed from the drawer.
Karissa is awake now… or up, anyway. I don't think she slept much either, if at all, as we lay in bed all night, lost in the darkness.
Smothered by the silence.
Drowning in the bitter truth.
The scent of coffee clings to the air in the kitchen. It has been two weeks—fourteen long mornings—since I brought that machine home.
She finally touched it.
Karissa stands by the counter in a pair of underwear covered by one of my white t-shirts, her back to me. I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her. I can make out the profile of her face, seeing her passive expression. She holds a small white cup, one I assume she dug out of the cabinet with the other china I've never used. Steam rises from the top as she lightly blows into it before taking a small sip.
And another.
And another.
"Good morning."
She turns at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flits my direction and she freezes, eyes scanning my face and down my chest, admiring her handiwork. I expect her to walk away, to blow me off like she usually does when I try to start a conversation, but instead she strolls my way.
Her feet stall after a few steps, and she lingers in front of me, a mere foot between us. I remain quiet, stoic, as she holds her cup out, wordlessly offering some.
My chest tightens.
It's an olive branch, I realize, but one I don't take.
She sipped it, so I don't think there's anything wrong with it, but I remember exactly what happened last time I thought that.
After a second, she sighs, realizing I'm not going to touch it, and pulls her cup back as she walks away.
"Thank you for the coffee machine, Naz," she says quietly. "I appreciate it."
Ray's trying not to laugh.
I'm trying not to punch him in the face.
I slouch in the black leather chair at Cobalt after nightfall, nursing a bottle of cold pale ale, hoping the alcohol can soothe my frayed nerves, but it's pointless, given the way Ray's gawking at me.
I turn my eyes toward him and raise an eyebrow in silent challenge, as the corners of his lips spastically twitch. He's shit at keeping a straight face, and he most definitely can't hide his amusement today.
It dances in his eyes.
He's enjoying this.
After a moment, he loses the battle entirely and a small chuckle echoes out as he full-blown grins. "How you feeling, Vitale?"