Just Me

But Joel knows. He lifts his head, molasses-black eyes sliding from your hitching chest to your burning hot face. He rips the knife from the man’s knee. The thing moans, twitches like a strummed guitar string, boots frantically scraping across blood-drenched cement. Then - it goes still. Dead.  It's done.

Joel says your name. It tumbles out, smacks the ground and hits you right between the legs. 

“Girl,” he warns. “You best leave if you don’t want it.”

You grin. It’s beyond your control. Your lips pull taut.

It. It. It. 

He shoots upward and storms toward you. He’s stained in red, curls wild and you react by stumbling backward. Your ass hits the ground hard before Joel is on top of you, climbing up your body. The knife clatters somewhere by your head. 

“You liked that.”

It’s a statement rather than a question. Joel says it as he undoes the button on your jeans, shucks the fabric down your legs. It’s freezing cold and your breath is visible - coming up fast and desperate. He uses the flat of his hand to drive your thighs apart, his calloused fingers slide through the folds of your cunt. You’re soaked and he grunts like he’s both pleased and somewhat surprised. 

He drops his mouth to your ear, whispers. “You’re fucked up.”

It’s so blunt that it slaps your clit. It breaks your fragile pieces open. You scramble for his shoulders, dig your nails into the back of his neck. You need every naked part of him he’s willing to give. You want to get his clothes off, but there’s no time. You hear the click of his belt buckle, the shifting denim fabric. He lowers his hips before shoving forward and then he’s inside you. It’s too much, stretching your cunt in half. He’s in your guts. Your lungs. His blood-slick palm slides over your belly as he thrusts up, the head of his cock punching against your womb because it’s meant to hurt. He wants it to sting-ache like a deep, unrelenting bruise. After one violent stroke that makes you whimper, your thighs close up, your knees locking against his hips. He hisses, large hands clamping onto your legs and pushing them back.

“Stay open for me, baby,” he growls. “Be good.”

He’s using you, grinding down in such a way that the ridge of his pelvic bone rubs against the peak of your sex. The room fills with his low rumbles, your sighs and the sound of him fucking into you over and over again. Wet. Squelching. Lewd. 

He covers you with his entire body, pins you to the floor as he splits you apart. “I’ll keep you safe,” he says softly before delivering a brutal snap of his hips that makes you choke. “Save you.”

It’s a strange confession when he’s slamming into you with such force that your head is knocking against cement. Every drag of his cock marks you in a new way. He’s too big. Too thick. When he kisses you, it’s like he’s trying to pierce your throat. His tongue slips over the roof your mouth, it tangles with yours until you submit. You’re dizzy with him, engulfed by the smoke-smell of his clothes and the metallic air of blood that surrounds you. 

You're dirty for this. Dirty for loving him kill even if it's for you.

For you. For. You.

It was a close call. Too close.