Bad Wrong Things

by C.P. Harris

“I only smoke when I want sex, if I’m stressed because I can’t get sex, or after I’ve had sex.”

I needed the night to end with me drunk and fucked until thinking was something I had to look up in the dictionary to understand.

Umm...not to be a stickler, but how could you be too fucked to think but not too fucked to look something up in a dictionary? Also... who uses a dictionary anymore?

Exactly how I’d felt before having the privilege of no longer giving a damn.

this is a privilege

“Don’t think so hard, Clint. The answer is yes, always. Even when it sounds like no. Now fuck me.”

He sank into me like a thumbtack through a corkboard.

some very creative analogies

I need to touch your bones,” he said, palming my sternum, getting comfy. “I can’t get deep enough inside you, or close enough to you. I want nothing in our way. Not even skin.” He yawned, his voice sleep heavy. “I sound crazy.” “No, you don’t,” I said,

I didn’t want to be fixed, I wanted to be loved for my brokenness.

“I’m the good thing,” I croaked softly, shrinking away as the loud clatter of something crashing in his bedroom penetrated my numb sphere.

Un-loving him wasn’t an option not only because I was incapable of it, but because outside of our affair, we were family. I didn’t want to lose that.

Because Raven didn’t only ensure that I fell for him, he’d made breathing impossible without him.

Raven excelled at that. Of making me feel like a man while also tending to the child in me. Loving me while building me up. Challenging me while making it all so easy.

“I need you here with me,” I whispered. “I’m on my way, sweetheart.”