Seth (Damage Control 3)

I groan, pulling back, taking out the last condom I have from my wallet. Feels symbolic somehow. It’s as if my time with her is ending.

Not yet, dammit.

As I push into her, as she wraps her long legs around my waist and rolls up to meet my thrusts, as the pressure builds behind my balls and inside my chest, inside my head, I fight the bad feeling, the despair. Let it roll through me, over me, chased away by the pleasure bursting through me, the feel of her body clamping around mine, milking my cock as it pulses again. And again. And again, taking away the last of my breath.

Holy shit.

Collapsing, I twist on my side and roll her in my arms, tucking her head under my chin, her arm over my ribs, breathing her in. Feeling her heart beat against mine.

I know, as I’ve known from the first time I saw her, that this is right where I wanna be. If only I fucking could.

***

It’s morning time, and Manon is brushing her long dark hair, seated on her bed. Like a movie star, in her black lacy underwear, the silver brush in her hand, she glows in the morning light.

I’m leaning against the headboard, watching her in a kind of daze, itching to touch the shiny, loose curls.

And why not? What’s stopping me? This is what a boyfriend would do, right?

Scooting closer, I brush the back of my hand over the rough silk, and she smiles at me over her shoulder. If not for the pounding behind my eyes and the damn exhaustion hounding me this morning, I’d have dragged her back under the covers and climbed back inside her.

We didn’t get much sleep last night, and it wasn’t all fun. Sure, after the sofa, we moved to the bed, and I found out she had two condoms in her bedside table drawer. You can bet we used them. She also went down on me again, and fuck, that was also amazing.

Then we fell asleep—passed out, more like—and I had the mother of all nightmares.

Can’t remember details. There was a long dim passage,

and I crawled on my hands, dragging my useless legs behind me. I had to reach Shane. Shane was held somewhere in the darkness of this place, and I had to free him before the monsters got to him. But as I crawled, the passage grew longer, and the air grew thinner. No oxygen. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t call out his name. Couldn’t go further.

Then they slithered out of the shadows—faceless at first, holding baseball bats and iron bars, wearing metal boots and metal rings on their hands, to hit me harder, cut me deeper with their blows, and kicks, and punches.

Like usual, I last a long time, writhing in pain, taking it all—stuff from my memories, my body remembering, too—until their faces are revealed.

My mom. Her boyfriends. The prison guard. The thugs from the cell across from mine.

Then Zane, Tyler, Rafe, Shane, Ocean.

“Liar!” they hiss as they kick me and slam their fists into me. “Goddamn liar. Goddamn convict. You get what you deserve.”

Almost fell off the bed before I fully woke up, my stomach churning, my heart hammering. I slipped off and made it to the bathroom just in time to puke my dinner. Managed to close the bathroom door, too, and not to wake her up.

Thank fuck for small mercies. Figures this would happen the one fucking night I spend in her apartment, in her bed.

“So you don’t really want to be a tattoo artist?” she asks, bringing me back to the present.

I blink, my fingers tangled in the shiny strands of her hair. “What?”

“You said you wanted to become a herpetologist when you were little. And you seemed sad.”

Oh shit. Must have been on her mind since Sunday. I guess I was sad, recalling my dreams, but that’s not how it is.

“Dreams change,” I tell her. “I like snakes. But I also like inking.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Really?”

I grab my wallet from behind me and pull out a small sketchbook Zane gave me. “Got a pen or pencil?”

Her brows go up. Then she hops off the bed and pulls a pencil from a box on her dresser. “Here. What are you going to do?”