Page 66 of Some Sort of Happy (Happy Crazy Love 1)
“Yes, what? What exactly do you want, angel?” Oh Jesus, I would probably go to hell for tying up Skylar Nixon and making her beg me to fuck her.
But right now, my soul’s eternal damnation seemed a pretty fair price.
“I want you, Sebastian,” she said breathlessly. “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”
“Hard?” I took my dick in my hand, stroking it as I took in the image of her bent over my bed, hands tied, legs straight, feet apart. I teased her pussy with the tip, smearing wetness from front to back, sliding it in the crack of her ass.
“Yes.” Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.
“Apologize.”
“Huh?” Her eyes popped open.
“Apologize,” I growled, pushing inside her. “For being so beautiful. For making me want you so badly. For breaking me down. For making me so fucking hard for you all the time.” Words slipped from my mouth as I grabbed her hips and thrust slowly in and out. “From the moment I saw you again, I knew you could undo me. I knew I should stay away from you, but I couldn’t. I can’t. The only thing I can do is make you mine.”
“I’m not sorry,” she rasped, her bound hands clenching into fists just like her pussy was tightening around my cock. “I’ll never apologize. Never.”
“So you want this?” I pulled her back onto me, slowly but not gently. I watched myself disappear inside her body, mesmerized.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want this. I want to break you. I want to be yours. I want you inside me.” Her voice hushed to a whisper. “I want everything.”
“Fuck. Fuck.” It was too much—all of it. The rope around her hands and her pale skin and curvy body, her words and the memory of her, the possibility of us. I held her hips and fucked her fast and hard and deep, and nothing—nothing—in my entire life had ever felt as good. Strength and power and indestructible certainty that I could do anything flooded my veins, and as I reached the breaking point, my entire body seizing up and then exploding deep within her, all I could think was taking her inside me, caging her within my bones, enclosing her within my ragged, imperfect puzzle of a heart.
Mine.
• • •
Later, after I’d unwrapped her wrists and kissed the tender red marks on her alabaster skin, we undressed each other and slid between the cool white sheets in my bed, arms wrapped around each other tight. She fell asleep first, and I lay there stroking her hair, ignoring the ghosts that tried to fill my head with punishing dread, filling it instead with the scent of her skin, the softness of her breath, the weight of her head on my chest. Then I closed my eyes and held her as I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I woke first, facing away from her, one of her arms slung over my torso. I picked up her hand and kissed it before sliding out of bed and pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from my dresser. Soft, golden morning sun was just starting to come in through the skylight, and I smiled at the way it fell across her features. I could get used to seeing the first light of day on her face.
It reminded me of a poem I liked by Robert Frost about the ephemeral beauty of the beginnings of things.
Was this our beginning? Would we always remember the first night we spend together? The first morning here at the cabin?
Don’t be fucking melodramatic, snapped the voice. You have no idea what she’s feeling. You think the things she said to you when you had her tied up and defenseless were real? It was a fucking game.
Fuck. It had been kind of a game, but I hadn’t sensed any guile or pretense in her. It felt like she was speaking the truth. I wanted it to be the truth.
Could this work between us? I wasn’t ever positive about anything, but something tempted me to think maybe, just maybe Skylar Nixon could be the one woman who was strong enough, sweet enough, forgiving enough to be with me. The thought was both terrifying and beautiful.
Quietly I climbed down the ladder, used the bathroom, put the coffee on, and took my notebook out onto the porch. I felt rested, but throughout the night I’d woken up repeatedly with words scattered in my head, and I wanted to see if I could make some sense of them on paper. Sometimes letting the voice have his way in writing demystified it—lessened its foreignness inside my mind. These were my thoughts, my words, my feelings, and I owned them. I wasn’t their victim. Pulling the pencil from the spiral where I’d tucked it, I looked out into the woods for a few minutes, letting the raw words weave themselves together.
Skylar
You fall softly
like snow
mine
I am beneath you (I fall hard, like stone)
so I will catch you
on my tongue
You melt there like sadness
