The peace I felt when I first woke has returned.
I’m dimly aware of her hands on my back. She uses slow, gentle strokes over my skin, and I try to match my breathing to the motion.
Raising my head, I look down at her beneath me. Her eyes are bright, but there’s a hint of trepidation in them. Moving slowly, I press my lips to hers, kissing her softly. She holds still as I gently kiss her and run my tongue across her lips.
I pull out slowly and then move back inside of her at the same rate. I keep kissing her as I move, keeping the slow pace until she begins to move with me but pushing me to move faster. I slide my hand down her side and then move up to cup her breast.
Alina wraps her arms underneath mine and up over my shoulders. She holds tight as I rock against her. The little gasps Alina makes as I stroke into her are enticing, and I speed up just to hear more of them. She holds tight to my shoulders and wraps her legs around my thighs.
I want this to last. I don’t care if I ever come. I just want to stay like this.
I thrust into her in a smooth, steady rhythm. She tenses around me, drawing me in with every penetration. I try to focus on something other than the feeling of being buried in her flesh, but her sounds drag me back with each thrust. My thighs tighten, and I have to pause to keep from losing control.
I take several deep breaths and ignore the throbbing in my cock. I grit my teeth for a second to steer my mind in another direction. It works—just barely.
I want her to come first.
Holding myself up with one hand, I stroke my fingers over her from neck to stomach. I lean down and lick her nipples one at a time, then blow cool air over them as she shivers. Using my free hand, I pull her arm out from around me and move her fingers down between us.
“Touch yourself,” I whisper in her ear. “Show me what you like.”
With her eyes closed, she reaches for her clit and slowly starts rubbing. I place my fingers over hers and time my thrusts with her movements. I watch her face, view the tension around her eyes as pushes up to meet me, and match my breaths with hers. When she reaches her tongue out to wet her lips, I meet her mouth with mine.
She moans against me, pushes up hard, and I feel her tense around my cock. She tightens her legs around my thighs, pulling me deeper inside her. I feel the contractions of the muscles in my legs and stomach, and it’s almost enough to make me lose my balance. The orgasm hits me hard, and I moan against her as I let go.
My arms and legs are shaking, but I hold my position over Alina as I pant against the skin of her shoulder. I feel her fingertips against my abs, stroking around to my back, over my hip, around my ass, and then back to where we are connected. She wraps her hand around the base of my cock and the edge of the condom, gently pushing me out of her.
So professional.
My jaw tenses, and I shove off the mattress with my palms and land on my back, grasping the condom and ripping it off. I toss it in the trashcan near the bed and stare at the ceiling.
I’m shaking ever so slightly, and I have to contract my muscles to keep the trembling from getting worse. My head is full of random images—the look on her face as she came, the crosshairs through the scope of my rifle, explosions around dry, sandy ground, Jonathan laughing and smoking a cigarette, and that fucking Soccer Mom sticker on my car.
None of it makes any sense. All of it pisses me off.
“Would you mind if I used your shower?”
“Suit yourself.” I sound terse. Any remnants of the calmness I felt when I first woke up are gone. Though I’m no longer tired, I am as tense as I had been before I brought her here.
Alina disappears into the bathroom, and I get up and slam some dresser drawers, looking for clothes. Apparently, I need to do laundry.
“Bullshit,” I mutter. I grab the last clean pair of boxers and shove the drawer hard enough for it to shake the whole dresser. My dog tags rattle in their dish, and I grab them in my fist. Pulling the chain around my neck, I stomp out of the room.
I head into the kitchen in my boxers. It’s too cold, but I don’t care. I listen to the water in the shower as I make myself a piece of toast and devour it. In the back of my head, I remember Alina making me breakfast. I should return the favor, but I don’t.
Ralph is in the living room, leaning against the couch with his arms folded across his chest. I want to walk over there and punch him. Knowing how pointlessly insane that would be doesn’t make me feel any better. I glare at him for a moment before turning away and grasping the edge of the counter with my fingertips.
I’m angry—not just annoyed, but completely consumed by unnameable rage.
I have no idea why.
Every muscle in my body is tense. I keep clenching my hands into fists, but it doesn’t help. My breath is shaky, and I realize I’m just staring at a plate full of breadcrumbs.
A moment later, I’ve hurled the dish, shattering it against the wall.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I tell myself to get it together. I want to slam my fist into the countertop, but self-preservation won’t let me break my own hand on the granite. I don’t know what to do with the boiling rage inside of me, and I can’t manage to shove it back down into my gut.
I’m also terrified.