11. Darla #2
When he pulled away, I whimpered at the loss, but then I felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against my slickness, not forcing, just waiting. He leaned over me, his chest hot on my back, and nuzzled the nape of my neck.
“You want it?” he asked, voice like a dare.
“Please,” I begged, and I meant it more than I’d ever meant anything. “Just fuck me.”
He growled—actual growl, deep and guttural—and shoved inside in one long, deliberate stroke.
The stretch was intense, bordering on pain, but it was so, so good.
He held still for a second, letting me adjust, then started moving, slow at first, each thrust grinding my clit into the mattress, then faster, harder, until I was gasping with every slap of our bodies.
The bed frame creaked like it was about to split in half.
His hands gripped my hips tight, thumbs bruising my flesh, and every time he bottomed out he let out a little grunt, as if it surprised him every single time.
It didn’t take long. I could feel him swelling, losing control, and I matched him, thrust for thrust, greedy for the friction.
When he came, he bit down on my shoulder, not enough to break skin but enough to claim me.
I came again, a wild, shuddering thing that left me boneless.
We collapsed together, a heap of sweat and spit and raw nerves.
For a few minutes, all I could hear was the whir of the ancient ceiling fan and the faint whoops from the bar below, like the world’s shittiest Christmas carolers.
He pulled me into his chest, wrapping around me, and I could feel his heartbeat slow to match mine.
I should have felt dirty, or used, or at the very least, guilty.
After it was done, we didn’t speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because every word felt like a risk and neither of us was built for that kind of gamble.
Axel just sprawled on his back, arm slung over his face, other hand cupping my ass like he wanted to make sure it was still attached.
I was draped across him, thigh thrown over his hip, cheek pressed to the smooth, faintly salty skin of his chest. Our sweat cooled and dried in the open air, leaving us sticky and half-glued to the sheetless mattress.
I traced the tattoos on his torso, half to keep from trembling and half because I was genuinely curious what kind of man turned himself into a moving Rorschach test. There was a skull riding a piston, a bloody-eyed wolf, something that might have been the Virgin Mary with angel wings, and script in Latin that I couldn’t read but looked like it probably meant “Fuck you” to anybody who asked.
Above his heart, shaded so dark it looked blue under the Christmas lights, was a lone maple leaf.
I’d have called it corny if it didn’t feel like a brand.
I wanted to ask about the leaf, but the words stuck behind my teeth. Instead, I ran my finger around it in slow, lazy circles. He flinched, just barely, but didn’t move away.
“You always tattoo your own name on your heart?” I joked, voice hoarse. “That’s a little narcissistic.”
He snorted, shifting so the sheet rode even lower on his waist. “You got room to talk. ‘Darla Maple.’ Is that even your real name?”
“More real than yours, ‘Axel.’” I made exaggerated air quotes with my free hand, then let it flop back to his chest. “What was it before? Or do you even remember?”
He went still, just for a second. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t come back.” He rolled his head to look at me, eyes slate and unblinking. “What about you, church girl? Thought you were supposed to be home before midnight, or you turn back into a pumpkin.”
“Joke’s on you. I’m more of a bad apple than a pumpkin.”
He smirked, and for the first time since we left the bar, his hand loosened its grip on my ass and stroked my lower back, slow and heavy. It felt like being petted by a wolf who couldn’t decide if I was a mate or a meal.
We laid there, silent, the lull between heartbeats thickening until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Do you ever regret anything?” I asked.
He turned to look at the ceiling, like he could see straight through the concrete and into the clouds. “All the fucking time. You?”
I laughed, short and mean. “Yeah. Like every fifteen minutes. I’m practically a professional.”
His chest rose and fell, deep and even, but the hand at my back tensed. “You regret this?” he asked, not like he wanted an answer but like he was taking my measure for a coffin.
“No.” I surprised myself by meaning it. “If anything, I regret not doing it sooner.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he rolled us both to our sides, pulling me tight against him, pressing my face into the sweaty tangle of his neck and beard. I could smell the last traces of his cologne, cheap and peppery, and beneath it, something that was just him—raw, electric, alive.
“You ever done that before?” he asked, softer now. “With someone like me?”
“With a convict biker who fucks like he’s angry at the world?” I shrugged. “Not exactly. With anybody? Not really, either. I mean, I’ve hooked up, but not—” I struggled for the word, couldn’t find it. “Not like this.”
He grunted, satisfied or not, and let the silence stretch again. The only noise was the distant rumble of motorcycles on the strip, and the thump of boots somewhere below. Somebody yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” but it sounded like a joke, or maybe a prayer.
I closed my eyes, felt the weight of his arm around me, the prickle of his chest hair under my palm, the steady thud of his heart.
For once, I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to erase myself or invent a new version that would be easier to explain.
I just wanted to stay there, pinned under his arm, until the sun rose or the cops knocked down the door—whichever came first.
“I’m going to see you again,” I said, more threat than promise.
Axel snorted, a laugh like gravel under boots. “Wasn’t planning on hiding. You want to run, you better do it now.”
“I’m tired of running,” I said, and meant that, too.
He looked at me for a long time, maybe trying to figure out where the lie was, or maybe just looking for the first crack in the story. When he didn’t find it, he leaned in and kissed me, soft this time, barely more than a brush of lips.
Then we listened to the night together, tangled and ruined and weirdly whole, letting the world keep spinning while we caught our breath.