52. Little Wing
JIMI HENDRIX
The first crack hits Andrew’s back before I open my eyes.
He cages over me, forearm slammed to the mattress above my head.
Then Celie’s scream tears through my room, animalistic and feral. “OH, HELL nah, motherfucker! I’ll end you!”
She’s in her purple puff jacket, purse slung at her elbow, swinging a broom at Andrew, trying to sweep his ass back to Jersey.
Andrew curses, hand snapping up,
catching the wooden broom mid-swing.
He’s half-hard, half-asleep,
hair fucked up, ready to throw punches.
Sheets knot around his hips as he throws himself between me and Celie.
Celie’s screech rips my eardrum.
“Get the fuck off her bed!”
Andrew snaps back,
“Nah, you get the fuck out,
“Who the hell even are you?!”
Celie’s eyes bulge, offended,
broom still cocked.
“WHO AM I?
“Bitch, who the fuck are YOU?!”
She’s gripping the other end,
wild-eyed, teeth bared.
Celie and Andrew,
locked in a tug-of-war over my broom.
Meanwhile, I’m flat on my back,
staring up at the ceiling—Please, kill each other so I can go back to sleep.
He grits his teeth, yanks it back.
“If you’d stop tryna kill me—”
“Nah, explain that shit WHILE I’m killin’ you.”
I slam both fists down into the mattress.
“Both of you SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Neither budges.
It’s like I’m not even here.
Andrew growls, muscles flexing.
“Give me the broom.”
“You give me the—”
As he jerks it back,
the sheet slides down his hip,
and Celie’s eyes dip.
She freezes.
She blinks.
Then all that rage melts right off her face into a smirk. “Mhm. Okay. You must be Six-Point-Five.”
The room falls quiet.
Andrew cocks his head.
“…The fuck you just call me?” Jaw tight, he yanks the sheet over his hips, clutching it like a scandalized housewife.
I groan,
pulling my hands up to cover my face,
feeling the heat of his stare.
I peek between my fingers.
Two navy eyes are aimed right at me.
“Six-Point-Five?” he spits. “That’s what you’re tellin’ people about me?” His eyes dart back to Celie. “You even know my name, or nah?”
Celie blinks again,
afraid to say anything.
Andrew looks back at me, wild.
“She know who I am, or just what I’m packin’?” He’s staring at me with wounded eyes, like I stripped his worth down to his dick size.
And I’m not gonna lie—
if it wasn’t crack-ass of dawn,
it’d break my heart a little.
But it is the crack-ass of dawn.
My head’s pounding.
Little Death’s strangling my clit.
All I want is one big goddamn orgasm
and a cup of joe.
Das it.
“Calm down. She knows your name,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, “Celie. Say his name.”
Her face blanks.
Her body stiffens, eyes stuck wide.
Then her eyes fall to the broom in her hand. “Mm… wouldya look at that?
“No Hunter here.
“Lemme just… put this back.”
My eyes shut as Celie exits the room,
door slamming behind her.
Silence swells. The room exhales.
Andrew’s still upright, breathing heavy,
chest bare, messy hair, eyes set to kill.
I yank him back over me.
“She texted me last night to check on me. Forgot to answer and left her hangin’. Now calm down. It’s too early for this.”
He drops,
his fevered skin spilling everywhere.
His elbows cage me in, a storm still riding the edges of his irises, his heartbeat punching into mine.
…Until it falls in rhythm, the fire calming to a smolder, burning slow now instead of ripping through him.
And it’s only us now—
well, him, me, and Little Death.
Cold December creeps through the window, the city still wet from last night’s snow. But the sunrise bleeds through cracks in the skyline,
staining the bed in copper,
slipping heat across my legs in patches.
My toes curl against the sheets,
chasing the warmth.
We’re chest to chest, stomachs flush,
and my head’s stuck on one thought:
he’s here.
Actually here.
Waking up with me.
In my bed.
In boxers that say, ‘I respect you.’
And an erection that murmurs, ‘But yo—
lemme disrespect you for like two seconds.’
Then when he breaks into a smile, like the we’re-finally-here just dawned on him too?
It undoes me.
And it’s dangerous how easy it is to picture this being routine. Him lying on top of me, his stupid grin touching my skin.
I wouldn’t hate it.
I’d want it. Every morning.
Fucking fuckety fuck-fuck shit.
Normally by this time I’d have a finger or tongue attached to my clit in Room 613, gettin’ the first climax of the day out of the way.
Instead I’m lying here,
pussy screaming bloody murder,
but praying like hell he won’t touch me.
Because no matter how hard and long I scrubbed Raymond off my skin, I’m still sick with guilt. I know I have to tell him. But we’re happy. We’re both finally fucking happy, and I’d rather sever my clit than his smile.
He buries his head into my neck, and my voice muffles in his thick hair. “You don’t cuddle. You smother, y’know that?”
He chuckles against my throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “On top of me all night.
“Buried under you.
“Tighter than I’ve ever been held.
“Almost died.”
I shrug. “And I didn’t hate it.”
His head lifts,
sleepy eyes crawling across my face.
“Yeah, yeah. An’ you don’t cuddle.
“You hold on for dear life.”
I shove his shoulder. “Liar.”
He catches my wrist, pins it against the mattress above my head. “Nah. You were wrapped around me tight. Arms, legs, whole fuckin’ body. I wasn’t goin’ nowhere.” His laugh fades, eyes burning as he still holds me down. “And I didn’t hate it.”
His mouth sinks into my neck,
wanders lazy down my throat.
“So that was Celie, huh?”
His words sweep along my collarbone,
and I drop my head to the side,
humming with my eyes half-closed.
He smirks into my skin. “I was gettin’ worried you didn’t have any real friends—
“or are you payin’ her too?”
I squeeze his side. “Ha. Ha. Real funny.”
He squirms, half a laugh breaking out against my neck, his teeth catching my throat playful.
Then the bite melts into a slow lick,
heat spreading down my spine.
“This mean we’re movin’ on?” he asks.
I think back to four in the morning,
when he’d returned from the bar
and I avoided him at all costs—
eye contact,
physical contact,
verbal contact,
staying on one side of the bed,
pretending to be asleep,
so he wouldn’t find out the cold, clammy truth: Raymond owns me and my addiction. And that means I’ll always be a disappointment.
Despite it all, somehow,
I still wake up surrounded by him.
And somehow,
it’s a mistake I want to keep making.
“I wanna move on,” he says when I don't answer, voice lazy, deep as his hand slides down my body. “‘Cause I can’t go another second without your pussy in my mouth.”
I grab his wrist, stopping him.
“I don’t need it.”
His head tilts, confused.
“You don’t need it,” he repeats,
then hates the aftertaste.
“Morning, afternoon, night,
“middle of the night—
“you told me that.”
“I did.”
There’s an awkward pause,
his eyes bouncing between mine.
“This about what happened yesterday? With Ben?” His brow lifts. “‘Cause I ain’t apologizin’ for protectin’ you. Could I’ve handled it better? Yeah, probably. But I know when you’re okay and when you’re not. And when you’re not? I’m steppin’ in. Every fuckin’ time.”
“I had it under control.”
“Yeah. Right. You really showed him—”
He tries to pull free to check my ass, sliding my cotton shorts up to see where Ben had smacked me.
My imagination transports two seconds into the future, to that alternate timeline of him seeing the damage:
his eyes ablaze with murder as he stares down at an angry bruise the color of plum and sickly yellow stamped across the pale of my skin—the unmistakable handprint—and the air going cold, his pupils blowing wide and feral.
“Are you kiddin’ me with this? Vaffanculo!
I’m gonna kill him,” he’ll say through gritted teeth.
“I’m gonna FUCKIN’ kill him. I’m gonna rip his stronzo heart out through his teeth!
Who does this cafone think he is, huh? You think I’m gonna let him walk around this penthouse let alone NEW YORK after doin’ this to YOU?
Alla mia ragazza? Vita mia? Ma che cazzo!
He’s done. He’s chiuso. He’s goin’ in the fuckin’ ground! ”
But I don’t let him get one glance and grip his wrist tighter, shifting and pinning my back to the bed. “Told you—you gotta leave feelings out of this.”
He gives up and rests his gaze on me.
“Allison, Sonny, Angel, Baby—all of you, listen. I’m not cuttin’ my heart out and leavin’ it at the door every time I’m enterin’ whatever room you’re in, I can’t. My first instinct’s always gonna be you.”
“Allison, Sonny, angel, baby?”
He lifts his chin.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Damn Crazy.”
My heart looks up.
A smile hits my face hard.
A blush plunges between my thighs.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now, you wanna keep lookin’ at the past? ‘Cause I’m busy lookin’ at you.” He turns his hand in my hold, grabbing my wrist now. “All that shit’s behind us. Hell Week’s over. Whatever happened before this moment, doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I scoff.
“Doesn’t matter,” he insists, not knowing exactly what he’s dismissing. “We’re startin’ fresh. Me and you. One day at a time…”
If that’s true, then maybe I can pretend Raymond never happened, too.
I breathe in deep.
Then nod. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he murmurs.
“I need you now,” I admit.
“Yeah.”
He wets his bottom lip.
Grins.
“Thought so.”
And he doesn’t waste another second.
His lips trail lower, hot,
damp kisses, teeth dragging.
I feel his hair tickling my chin,
then my neck,
then my chest,
then stomach
as he slides lower,
lower,
kissing down my ribs and stomach,
sliding off my sleep shorts,
until nothing but his shoulders are pushing my soaked thighs apart.
He kisses the inside of my thigh,
flicks his eyes up at me,
then lifts his palms.
“Ain’t on my dick, aight?” He splays his fingers across my pelvis. “But lemme be up here with you, too?” He locks eyes with me, kissing an inch closer, trailing his hand up to my chest, whispering into my skin. “Please?”
He presses flat in the center of my chest, pinning me down, needing to feel the thud of my heart under his palm, like
if I won’t let him use his hands below,
he’ll use them above.
I nod even though all this is overkill.