Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

I decide I like the ocean, and I like cigarettes. Because I… I am also unforgivable.

“When have we ever been able to let go of the things that hurt us most?” I mutter.

“We’ll cross paths again, Sawyer. Life has a funny way of throwing people into your path when you’re meant to collide. It’s up to you to choose to make it permanent.”

This man next to me? I'd have to work hard to tire him out, and by the time I accomplish that, then I'd be too fucking tired to do anything else. He's dangerous.

Body of a Greek god? Check. Could ruin my life with just the tip? Check.

I like that he speaks as if he's dying and doesn’t have time to be pleasant when he has no fucking interest in doing so. He doesn't waste time on false narratives and assurances. He's the type that will sit next to you because he wants to and stays in a conversation because he cares enough to know what you're going to say next. He's intentional.

“Only if you promise not to touch me,” I call back. “I promise not to do anything you don’t beg me for.”

“You’re going to ruin me, too. But unfortunately for you, that’s where I feel most at home.”

“I’m tired of men who don’t know what they’re doing. So, kiss me first. If you don’t know how to fuck me with your mouth, then you won’t know how to use your dick, either.”

“I’m not the type of man you want to doubt,” he says, his voice deepening.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs before placing a slow, soft kiss directly on my clit, glancing up at me as he does. I inhale sharply, disappointed when he retreats.

I find myself desperate to experience that, too, because he can kiss. And without a shadow of a doubt, I know this man can fuck just as well.

The veins threading throughout his arms swell, and I can see the tension gather in his shoulders as he brings me closer, the entirety of his mouth covering me like he can’t get enough—eat enough—of me.

“Open wider, bella, I need more of you.”

His fingers withdraw, replaced by his tongue, and he greedily drinks from me.

If this man were my kingdom, I’d sit on this throne for fucking eternity.

“One is holy, and the other is depraved.”

What I want to do is throttle the little siren that tricked me.

I want to fucking hurt her. Even worse, I want to fuck her again while I do it.

“I don’t kiss anyone. I’ve never met a woman who deserves that intimacy from me.”

Enzo claims he gave me the best fuck of my life—and he’s not wrong—but I’d wager that I did the same for him.

Why can’t he be like the other men? Mediocre, at best—if I’m lucky. They were so much easier to let go of. To forget about, until someone called me by their name.

“I said I’d give you a kiss for coming with me, didn’t I? Unlike you, I’m not a fucking liar.”

“The taste of you is fucking addicting, I must admit,” he purrs in my ear. “Let them taste you, too, baby.”

Seeing Sawyer on the beach fucked with my head more than I expected it to. I had a mouthful of shit I planned to say to her, but the only thing at the forefront of my mind was to teach her a lesson. Taking her out on the boat wasn’t planned. Fucking her again definitely wasn’t planned. And now, I regret all of it.

She may be a siren, but she’s mine to hurt just as much as she’s mine to protect.

“His name is Enzo. Sorry for his manners. He got bullied in school and hasn’t seen a therapist yet. We really appreciate your kindness.”

But I also know better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

“You can steal an entire identity, but breaking out of a room is too far for you, baby? Are there any other unforgivable morals you want to share, or is it only okay when you're the one ruining lives?”

“Fuck you,” I spit. I fucking hate him. “Already did, and it was the worst mistake of my life,” he retorts.

There's an entire ocean before me that deserves my reverence, yet all I want to do is give it to her.

I really want to do something to her right now, but she's got me too fucked up to figure out what.

She smells of the ocean, and I fucking hate it. It's my favorite scent, and she doesn't deserve to wear it.

Try as I might to deny it, I have an attraction to doing the wrong thing.

“I want to hear what it sounds like when you’re breaking and can’t scream.”

“Does it hurt, baby?” he asks quietly. “Not being able to scream for me like you want to.”

“Do you hear how pretty it sings for me? Why don’t you sing me a lullaby, bella? Let me hear it.”

“You're so easy to break,” he murmurs darkly.

That’s a challenge, and it only stirs the panic.

“You always do when you create your own little ocean all over me.”

I like that she feels me. Fears me.

“Well, did you not fuck me while actively drowning me? You’re going to act like there isn’t something wrong with that?”

It’s paralyzing—the way he hates to want me. It’s empowering.

“Oh God,” I cry, trying to keep my voice down but failing miserably. “Can you see him, baby? Ask him for forgiveness.” “Why?” I pant, another high-pitched moan nearly swallowing the word. “Because you worship me now.”

How is it that my hatred for how she makes me feel is somehow shifting, and now I’m hating the way I make her feel?

Despite how cruel I can be, she comes undone for me so fucking easily.

And fuck Him for making her the one thing I want most.

The thought of carving my name into her soft skin has my cock thickening. She makes it so hard to feel sorry when hurting her is so fucking intoxicating.

“You are as unreliable as I am when it comes to fucking each other, and last night was a clear indication of that. This may come as a surprise to you, baby, but I don’t believe a goddamn word you say anyway.”

How is it that I want to hurt her, yet protect her from my own damn self?