Bad Wrong Things

by C.P. Harris

“If only I could work out how to fuck and eat you at the same time,” he said, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “This…doesn’t—Christ—end until my mouth has had a turn with you. Wait until you see how much cum I’ve got for you, sweetheart.”

“Tell me, baby,” he encouraged. “Tell me there will never be another man for you. Tell me you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you. Promise me we’ll do whatever it takes to make us work. Promise that you won’t hold this night against me. Say you believe things can be different.” He sat up, crushing me to him as emotion ravaged his voice. “I’m not the same man,” he said for the second time that night, but it was hard to see that right then. “Promise me. And if you can’t promise me all those things, then please, lie to me.”

Raven was an artist with a kind heart and an infinite supply of love to give. He was tormented in a way that made him alluring, that made me want to find and touch that faulty thing in him. I didn’t want to fix it. I never viewed Raven as something that needed fixing in order to work. I wanted the privilege of rolling around in it. Of being bold enough to be dented, too.

I was shamefaced and angry at myself for wanting you. Pissed because you being with a man is wrong, if that man isn’t me. Jealous because the only set of hands that should be setting your body on fire are mine.” Clint lurched for me, his fingers going around my throat, a growl rumbling up his chest. “I wanted to rip his fucking tongue out and spank you for being such a whore.” He released me with a hiss, jumping back and gaping at his trembling hands. “Jesus, Raven. I-I’m sorry.”

“How can you be so sure you’re in love with me?” “Because it’s been six years. That’s seventy-two months, one-hundred and ninety-two hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-eight seconds, and I still haven’t been able to talk myself out of it. I give up. Tell me you’ll throw in the towel, too.”

“The mouth and the heart are connected. That’s why words hurt. I’d never give either to anyone but you.”

My need for him would be a spotlight we couldn’t dim. A thirst we couldn’t quench. A hunger with a ravenous need to be fed.

“Has your underwear shrunk a size?” “No, that’s my dick shouting for room to breathe.” Clint had a mouth on him when turned on.

“Clean bill of health, Clint. After the incident in the club, I wanted nothing standing in the way of your cum painting my walls white.” I licked a stripe from his chin to upper lip, and Clint’s hand holding the supplies faltered, the items toppling to the bed. “My filthy mouth is the least of your concerns. My ass is gonna take you down whole. And I want your meat raw when it happens.”

“I want to leak you for days.”

“You first. I want to see how smug you are when your prostate is being dinged post orgasm.”

sack as it swung. “I’ll be slurping it out of you all night, Raven.” If rimming him full time was a job position, I’d have taken it. If I could’ve eaten him inside out, I would have. If I could’ve fit my lips, my teeth, my tongue, and my heart inside him all at once, I would’ve done that, too.

We’d sped past dirty without a backward glance. We’d do and try anything that’d get us closer to the feeling we were chasing. I couldn’t word it better than to say we wanted to be stripped of all humanity when with each other. Raven and I did things that would bring my badge and morals into question, but in the sanctuary of our home, away from the prying eyes of the village, our obsession grew unchecked, and we were unbothered by it.

“When I’m done with your body, it’ll repel anything that isn’t me, Raven.”

Funny how the better way becomes transparent only after you’ve dipped your toe into the quicksand.

“I can’t live without you isn’t some fucking cliche,” I said, drying his tears as his eyelids drooped and his hold on my jacket slackened. “But I’m going to do it, anyway.” “I’ll find you,” he said, fighting sleep. “I…love you.” “This isn’t love, Clint.” I cried for all three of us, weeping all over him. “Not anymore.” “Then what is it?” he mouthed more than spoke. “Poison.” The low dose, slow-killing kind, and we’d reached the death end of it.