Chapter 17 #2
I part my lips against his, inviting his kiss—and he accepts.
Mouth meeting mine, he starts a slow, rhythmic pace, sliding in and out of me, getting me accustomed to his size again.
I throw my arms around his neck and arch into him as best as I can, all folded up like this against the tree, with bark scraping over my back and his cock filling me, his thrusts quickening, sharpening, like he only pulls out an inch or two before driving himself back in.
My grunts aren’t pretty.
But he eats them whole.
Our grunts meet, mouth to mouth, guttural and restrained. Our flesh smacks together, the tree bark disturbed and raining down on the foliage.
And it all weaves together to make the song that fills this little pocket of the forest.
Between every thrust, every plush kiss, every harsh breath, his teeth bare, as though he’s on the verge of biting into me.
And I don’t know what it means if he does.
I just know I can’t let him do it.
So I tighten my hold on him, arms locking around his neck, and I whisper against his glistening lips, “Samick.”
A snarl crawls up his throat.
I echo it, repeat his name in a whisper, in a moan, again and again, whining more and more the harder he fucks me, the higher I climb with him.
And as it strikes me, as brutal and cold as an ocean storm, my head smacks back into the tree—
A hollow shout ribbons out of me.
Samick’s feral groan drowns out my cry.
He slams me harder against the tree—and thrusts into me once, twice, and he comes undone.
The warmth spills inside of me.
His cock throbs, pulses against my walls.
And he curves over me, dropping his head to mine, that groan spiralling on and on, until it tempers into something softer.
But he doesn’t pull away from me.
Not yet.
Not even after he’s come down, and I’ve relaxed against him.
For a moment longer, he just holds me to him.
He angles his face to mine, his full, swollen mouth grazing my cheek.
Then he nips.
And I wince.
But it was just a nip.
No blood, no bite.
Fragile…
Samick tugs his cock out of me, and wetness escapes with him.
My face twists. It’s an uncomfortable sensation.
Then he releases my legs, letting them slip down his side, until my boots dangle above the ground.
He steps back, his arm leaving me, and I drop.
My boots thud down on the foliage.
And I get that post-fuck clarity.
I’m exposed.
Heat floods my face, burns down past my clavicle, and under the sweater, where I know my chest is an ugly shade of red.
I scramble for my waistband and start to shimmy up my trousers.
Samick doesn’t watch.
Doesn’t observe me like he usually does.
He stands a foot away from me, his thumb running over his mouth, as though wiping away the residue of our kiss. His gaze is fixed on the torch, the lights flickering over a bug that goes skittering over the rocks.
His eyes are hollow.
Faint greens again, lettuce and almost unfeeling, a frown creases his brow—and he looks lost in thought.
Absentmindedly, distantly, he fastens his trousers, but he isn’t here.
“Do you have a tissue?” I ask, prodding him back to the now. I don’t do up the zip and button, not yet. “Or a cloth?”
Still, he watches the bug.
I trace his stare to it.
The light glares over lifted wings, blues and purples and dark swirls.
A butterfly.
But none I’ve ever seen before.
Another adaptation to the blackout.
And it makes no fucking sense, because there’s no sun, so there should be no photosynthesis, no plants, no bugs for the plants, no pollinators.
And I wonder, now, staring at the wrongness of the butterfly, one I would pin in a heartbeat if I had the materials, how the earth is working with the darkness.
I look at Samick.
He stares at the butterfly, watching it walk slowly over the boulder. But he isn’t thinking about it. That frown is for something else—me, I guess.
Or what he did with me, to me.
That frown might be for the kiss.
His own shame, his own disappointment.
Good for him. I’m still waiting on my own to come and punish me for it.
“Samick,” I press, careful, “I can’t go back to the camp like this. I need something to wipe with.”
Also, side-note for when he’s actually paying attention to me, will this become a problem? Do I need to stop and get some pills?
He has finished in me twice now.
Would be great if he didn’t do that again, but to start with that chat, I need him to actually look at me, to remember that I exist.
I snap my fingers in his face.
And that does it.
His eyes flash, blizzards, and he turns a silent glare on me. But then he blinks, and his stare is softer.
“Did you hear me?”
His mouth twitches. “Incessantly.”
I don’t know if he almost smiles or snarls.
Maybe both.
He reaches into a pocket on the thigh of his leathers, then tosses a rag at me.
I snatch it, lean my shoulder against the tree, and hide from him as I wipe.
Not like privacy is needed, really.
Besides, Samick stalks for the torch, brushing past me as he goes.
I wipe, fold the rag, wipe again, fold the rag, and so on, until there’s no more folding that can be done.
And I let the rag hit the foliage.
Gross, but even grosser if I take it with me.
I do up my zipper, fasten the button, then turn towards Samick.
He straightens up by the stones, the torch in his hand.
But the butterfly is gone. And I swear Samick just put something in his pocket, his fingertips just slipping out of it, but then I blink, and it’s to darkness.
He switches off the light.