34. After the Elimination #2
Afterwards, I’m a ruin. Trembling, drooling into the sheets, forehead sweat glued to the pillowcase, body turned from string and wire into loose, quivering jelly.
Alessandro rolls off the bed and pads to the bathroom, feet silent.
When I look at him again, his cock is rock-hard once more in his hand.
He’s leaning on the marble sink, skin glazed in sweat, hair a black snarl, eyes glassy and red as if he’s been underwater for hours.
When he catches me watching, he doesn’t flinch or try to hide; he just crooks two fingers, beckoning. The air between us is syrup-thick. I’m already half off the bed, knees buckled, brain usurped by endorphins and maybe actual love, if there’s any difference.
He strokes himself lazily, putting on a little show, letting me see how much he wants me.
There’s no shame left in either of us, not after that.
I crawl, literally crawl, to the bathroom, every muscle in my thighs singing a fresh, sharp ache.
The tile is so cold, I almost yelp. He backs up onto the closed toilet lid and spreads his knees, cock bobbing at the apex of his thigh like an invitation for a dare.
My knees splay, and I crawl across the marble, grasping him at the base and licking a stripe, slow at first, up to the head, dragging my tongue so he can feel every molecule of my spit.
He shivers, just a fragment, but it’s there.
I’ve got him again. Powerless, powerful: the same thing, in this room.
I want him to finish in my mouth. I want my jaw to ache tomorrow.
So I set to work, finding the pace that depraves him, both of us reduced to pure appetite.
I taste the salt of my own pussy still on him, bittersweet, an echo of the room and us, and it only urges me harder, deeper, until I gag and force myself not to choke. I’m greedy. I want the whole of him.
“Fucking hell, Evie,” he grunts. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
The words split me in half, half terrified, half so fucking wet I could drown us both.
For a nanosecond, I flash on the last time, the only other time, and the betrayal that followed after.
But Alessandro’s face is so raw, so completely without irony, it short-circuits the entire system of shame and memory.
He groans, devours me with his eyes, and presses my head down, slow and gentle, until my lips are flush with the tip of him. I hollow my cheeks, sucking so hard I make my sinuses ache, and his hips buck in response, an electric charge running through his whole body.
When I sense he’s about to lose control, I pull off, let a sloppy string of spit connect us, and then run my tongue down, down, lower, teasing the sensitive seam behind his balls.
He doesn’t expect it. Or maybe he does, but he’s unprepared for the want in my mouth, how I lick and prod and then, experimentally, take one swollen ball between my lips and suck, sweet and careful as a stolen fruit.
The shock makes his thighs snap closed, but I just smile, tongue already flattening, patient and relentless.
I hear him murmur “okay, okay,” but it trembles on the edge, and I know in that instant control is an illusion neither of us wants to keep.
I inch my mouth lower, let my breath feather against the damp crease where his thigh meets his body, and he shudders again.
The flavor is raw and personal and inalienably him, sweat and skin and salt.
I tongue the seam, the dark split, a teasing swipe just to see if he’ll flinch.
But then he pulls me back. “I mean it, Evie. I need you now.”
I nod, kneeling between his legs. “Yes. I want it.”
I want it so much, I can feel myself starting to sweat again, nerve endings already stinging at the anticipation.
Last time, it was someone else prying me open, bending me by force and shame.
This will not be that. I want to see the exact moment Alessandro loses it, see what he’ll do to me when I give up the last inch of resistance.
He stands and yanks me up with both hands, spins me around so my hip cracks the marble counter, and grinds against the cleft of my ass. His cock is wet and hot at the small of my back.
“You have to tell me if you need to stop,” he murmurs, though it’s more like a command than a kindness.
He spits in his palm and fists himself, then drags his slicked hand between my cheeks, teasing himself along my crack in slow, steady passes. It’s ritualistic, almost, the way he works me open. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready; he just waits for my body to say so.
He presses the head of his cock against my asshole, pushes just enough to make me gasp, then pulls back again, teasing, grinding, slapping my ass just to watch me flinch and shudder.
My hands spasm, knuckles white on the edge of the sink, forehead pressed to the cool marble. My heart is a jackhammer in my ribs.
“Relax. Let me in,” he breathes, voice all hunger and smoke.
It hurts at first, the blunt pressure pushing past the shallow resistance. Less a piercing, more a slow, merciless splitting, like being unstitched. I whimper and brace my legs wider to ease the angle. Every atom in my body burns.
Then he spits again, and the heat of it slides, soothing the burn, and I moan with an ugly, desperate need that surprises even me.
He waits, gentle for a single heartbeat, then leans his weight in slow and merciless, not stopping until I’m stretched full around him, until there’s nothing left of me but this hot, perfect violence.
My lungs flutter, a hummingbird caught in bone. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t ever want to forget this: the helpless, filthy joy of stuffing myself with him, the pulse of blood and slick and pain, the way the pressure starts to flip from agony to something worse, something sweeter.
He moves, shallow at first, hand clamped around my hips, steadying me. I’m crying out by then, animal sounds, so far from language that I don’t even recognize myself.
He just fucks into me, a little deeper each thrust, a little rougher, until I can’t stand and have to collapse over the sink, palms splayed, my forehead bouncing off the mirror, tears tracking sideways because I’m making a total, catastrophic mess of myself and I never, ever want to get clean again.
The friction is just this side of impossible, and he knows, he must know, but he doesn’t let up, doesn’t ask if I’m okay.
He just keeps saying my name, low and savage, as if he’s trying to squeeze a diamond out of me with every thrust. I savor each white-hot inch, let myself choke on the hurt, and tilt my hips to take more, greedy for the feeling of being rewritten from the inside out.
When I look in the mirror, our faces are reflected in perfectly ugly symmetry: my eyes red and streaming, black mascara chopped across my cheek like warpaint, mouth open in a ragged, keening oh.
Alessandro is right behind me, jaw clenched, hair slicked to his forehead, hands gripping my waist like he’s hauling me back from the edge of a cliff.
We’re both animals, both ruined, and I love it.
I never thought I’d live to see myself want to be hollowed out for someone, never thought it would feel anything but like a theft, and now it’s nothing like theft.
It’s a baptism, a second birth. I want him to fuck the memory of every other man out of me.
He grabs my hair, not to control but to anchor himself, and uses it to steady the rhythm.
I’m unmoored, made of electricity, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
I can hear my own voice, wanton and huge, echoing off the marble, “fuck, yes, more, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” and when my body starts to shake, he brings his hand around, two fingers instantly on my clit, rubbing hard and filthy as he pounds into me.
There’s nothing left but sensation: the slip and burn of his cock, the bite of his teeth on my neck, the way he stares me down in the glass, my own face breaking apart under the sensation, the raw feel of a good, hard cry.
My pussy is still throbbing, and when he grinds those fingers on my clit, I come again, my whole body locking up, spitting out a splintered, shrieked “fuck!” that could probably be heard three floors down.
He doesn’t stop, not even when I go limp, not even when my legs threaten to give.
He just keeps fucking in tight, ragged strokes until I feel him stutter and spasm in staccato movement, then jerk me tight to him as he empties inside me.
He presses his face to the back of my neck, heat and sweat and shudders, letting out a single, strangled moan.
When he’s spent, he collapses against my back, both of us sliding to our knees together, bodies tangled in the small, cold bathroom, knees bumping into ceramic, cheek to cheek, chest to back.
For a minute, we just breathe, ragged, uneven, spit and tears drying on our skin.
Alessandro clutches my hip with a grip like he’s afraid I’ll evaporate.
I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror and wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever see myself alive.
Small and spent and marked by someone who doesn’t even know what he’s ruined in me.
He nuzzles the sweat-soaked hair at the crown of my head. “You okay?”
I laugh, exhausted, edged with something close to gratitude. “I’m fucking spectacular.” My voice comes out raw and ugly, and I love it. “How about you?”
As I turn to see him and our eyes lock in, realization hits me. He looks different. New. Changed.
He looks like he has feelings… feelings that might be for me.
So I do the only thing I can. I kiss him.