Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

For reasons I’m not ready to name yet, that pisses me off, and the bitterness toward her only deepens. Everything she does just… pisses me off.

“No more running, baby. I want him to come looking for you just so I can have the privilege of ending his life for touching what’s mine.”

“You were always destined to be mine,” he says.

His words make no sense. So hot and cold… and as much as I want what he’s saying to be true, it could never happen.

“I guess I just want to know if it’s possible to let someone go that doesn’t want to be found.”

“Because she let her sadness transform her into a miserable human being, capable of hurting others just to save herself. She wasn’t worthy of my forgiveness.”

I don't like attachments, but I cling to those who offer something meaningless. Until Enzo, at least.

I prefer his fire over ice, his anger over silence, and his hate over indifference.

I’m angry, and I’m not even sure why anymore. I shouldn’t give him the power to hurt me, but I've always been malleable to him. He draws me in, uses my body against me, and then shuts me down seconds later, leaving me bereft and feeling colder than before. He’s just… he’s just a fucking asshole.

She’s a wild animal that has entered survival mode and doesn’t know how to live any other way.

Maybe I need to give it a few more seconds before the Lord takes me.”

“You’re not dying.” “You sure? I think I hear Jesus talking to me.” “Then you’re definitely not dying. Jesus would never talk to you.”

If I’m the devil, she’s fucking Lilith.

I’ve faced far worse, yet a five-foot-nothing nymph is what brings me to my knees. I want her out of my fucking head, but she’s in too deep.

I have plenty to say, and I will make sure she hears it, but only when I feel like I can speak without wanting to simultaneously stick my tongue down her throat.

I feel the touch of his gaze as intimately as if he were caressing my body with his fingers.

“I wouldn’t put it past me, either,” he retorts, squeezing out the shampoo into his palm. “Maybe that’s why I need to touch you so badly.”

I’ve been so scared that I’ve forgotten that I’ve been fighting, too. I’ve been fighting to survive, to live, to have freedom. Just like I fought each and every wave that threatened to drag me under.

“I mean,” he starts slowly. “If I knew exactly when you were lying every time you did it, do you think you would continue to do it?”

“I’m a coward,” I tell him, my chest tightening from the truth of it. “Running and hiding is easier. Sometimes, I will say and do anything to get someone to turn their attention away from me. It feels safer that way. Confrontation… it’s never led to anything good.”

If he asked me to ride him like a cowgirl, I’d have no issue pushing him down and showing him exactly what a wild animal looks like. But asking me to be vulnerable quite literally feels like pulling teeth.

That smile is far more dangerous.

The second his cock is freed, I can’t look away. So fucking beautiful. So fucking lethal.

When, in reality, no one has ever touched me the way Enzo does.

Enzo and I—we’re not very compatible, I think. We speak different languages most days, and it’s a constant battle of figuring each other out. But when we’re stripped of our clothes and our bodies are doing the talking, we understand each other as if God was never angry with humans and separated us by the way we move our tongues. When we’re like this, the way we move them is the only thing that makes sense.

Normally, I’d close them and pretend someone else was touching me instead. But with Enzo crowding over me, pleasuring himself as he watches me, it would kill my building orgasm if I dared look away.

“I lie to myself every day. I tell myself that I'm so fucking addicted to you because of how sweet your pussy tastes or how it cries so easily for me. But I know it's only because of you.”

“I don’t see how. I’m broken, and everything I touch bleeds.”

“I love it when you're hurt, baby, but only when it's me who inflicts the pain.”