Track No. 10 You Don’t Own Me #4
He learns her senses so he can go numb to ‘em. It’s how he can eat for hours and keep himself outta the way. He won’t taste or smell a goddamn thing unless he wants to. And he never fuckin’ wants to. Smellin’ and tastin' them is the part that turns it intimate.
Truth is, every time he got down there, it felt borrowed.
Like he was eatin’ someone else’s girl.
He keeps his eyes low or closed, focusin’ on the shake in her thighs, the way she’s clawin’ the edge, breath chopped. She’s about to come again, he’s barely gotta work for it. He knows with a Papercut Pussy, less is more.
She slaps her hand against the wall as if she’s callin’ time. He smirks between her folds, then seals his mouth wide and sucks her clit gentle. Can’t tap out of this one, sweetheart.
“Holy shit—I can’t take it—I can’t—okay stop! But don’t fuckin’ stop!”
Her foot kicks up and smashes the paper towel dispenser off the wall. Thing clatters down, and the roll shoots out, hobblin’ across his Nikes. Her hand scrambles for somethin’ to hold, hittin’ the faucet. She grips the knob, poppin’ that off too.
And then she’s got her fist in his hair. Her spine melts, back slidin’ down the mirror, hips slippin’ forward. He keeps her in his mouth ‘til her heels shake in the air and she’s foldin’ in half with her chin buried into her chest.
And then she comes.
…Or goes, Andrew thinks.
‘Cause it sounds like she’s dyin’.
A growl rumbles out, rollin’ into a groan-like scream as if Hell’s openin’ its gates from inside her—a deep, savage grunting that claws up from the goddamn earth. And then he’s fuckin’ laughin’ into her pussy.
He holds back the sound but can’t stop his shoulders from shakin’.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The bathroom door vibrates, a fist poundin’ from the other side. “Holly!” Another pound. “I know you're in there! Open this fuckin’ door!”
Guy’s pissed, talkin’ fast, city-born.
Andrew’s head pops up, eyes wide.
“Shit—” Now he’s pissed. “Lemme guess, boyfriend?” He doesn't wait for her to answer. He immediately pulls back, fixin’ his chain.
She’s breathin’ hard, not sayin’ yes or no.
Which means yes.
She grabs her panties, shaken and on the verge of tears. “We broke up,” she rushes out, then, “…tonight.”
He’s shakin’ his head. Same old record.
Another slam on the door. “Holly! Open the fuckin’ door!”
She hops off the counter and heads to the door, but Andrew stops her. “Whoa—hold up. Don’t open the door. Not yet. Just… gimme a second,” he says, reachin’ for the broken knob across the counter.
He slides it back on the faucet and turns on the water.
He doesn’t usually do this part with the girl watchin’, doesn’t want insecure thoughts goin’ through their head as he scrubs his hands, wrists, and face hard.
Next, he blows out a deep breath while slippin’ a half-used travel bottle of mouthwash from his front pocket. He throws it back like a shot of vodka, feelin’ it burn the back of his throat.
In the mirror, she’s standin’ behind him, trackin’ his every move. He faces the sink, swiggin’, garglin’, and spittin’, a blue trail spiralin’ down porcelain, then he tosses the empty bottle into the trash.
He ain’t scared. He’s mad and disappointed in himself for still bein’ shocked when shit like this goes down. He turns, scans the tile, then snatches the busted roll of paper towels off the floor. He’s movin’ fast, rippin’ off two strips and foldin’ ‘em tight.
“C’mere,” he says, standin’ in front of her. He crouches down and slides her heel off. Then lines the inside with the paper towel pad, right where it’s makin’ her blister. “Ain’t a band-aid, but it’ll stop the bite.”
He does the same for the other foot, still refusin’ to look her in the eyes.
“There,” he says, lettin’ her heel slide off his thigh. “That do it for you?”
She lets out a half-laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.” But then she doesn't make a move to leave. She only stands there, starin’ at him. He doesn’t like the way it feels, with her eyes on him. As if she wants more.
He wipes his palms across the back of his pants as he stands, ready to dip.
The third reason in his three-for-three ritual is the one he’d never admit out loud. The one that’s much simpler, stupider, sadder. ‘Cause some pathetic part of him still believes he’ll know when he finds the one.
He thinks maybe his body will recognize her from scent and taste alone. Somethin’ animal and old and buried. Somethin’ in his chest that says mine. Somethin’ that tastes like a memory he never had and feels like home.
Look. Smell. Taste.
Safety. Separate. Search.
Three-for-fuckin’-three, and he don’t even know why he still cares. What’s the point? He just had his face buried in a girl who’s got another man knockin’ on the door.
Newsflash, dumbass.
They all lie through their fuckin’ moans.
Lie even easier when they’re flat on their backs.
He walks toward the door, unlocks it, opens it. Then Andrew’s eye-to-eye with her boyfriend—six foot two and pissed.
Andrew slips right past him without makin’ eye contact, a hand pressed against his own chest. “S’cuse me, bro.” His other hand slides back into his pocket before the door swings shut behind him.