Page 52 of Rage
Her nipples harden, her back arches, and my lips softly skim over her right nipple and then the left.
I reach her lips and slide my tongue inside and finally taste her.
The whimper that leaves her throat is like a song that calms the rage inside me. I drown in her and don’t stop kissing her until she needs air.
I raise my head and pull my hoodie off over my head. Her hands find the same spot over my chest. My heart beats faster with the feel of her touch on my skin and the way her fingers move over the ripple of muscle.
She is so small compared to me. Petite but strong at the same time.
My fingers find the black string of her panties, and I pull them down her hips.
I settle between her legs and look up, watching her watch me with wonder in her eyes.
My mouth is so close to the lips of her wet pussy that the light from the moon cannot hide them from me.
I taste her slowly like a wine connoisseur’s favorite vintage—expensive, intoxicating, and impossible to forget. Her little moans of pleasure are like music to my tongue. Every flick and suck on her clit gets her closer to coming.
I fuck her with my tongue, tasting every sinful second I have my face between her thighs.
Her fingers grip my hair.
She gasps. “I’m coming, Saint. Fuck. I’m coming. Yes.”
I don’t stop fucking her with my tongue, sucking her clit with each measured stroke. I hold her as her thighs shake, her orgasm hitting her like a bullet train. Deep measure strokes, memorizing her scent.
When her thighs stop shaking, I breathe her in one more time like fresh air, lick her one last time until I reach her parted lips right before she falls asleep. “You’re mine now.”
When the first gray light comes through the curtain gap, I stand carefully, slowly, and I put the duvet back around her where she’s thrown it off.
I look at her for a long moment after putting on my hoodie.
Then I leave.
I pull the door and make sure it’s locked.
In the stairwell, I stop, and I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, against the place where she put her palm, and I breathe.
Three hours until first period.
I have never been less interested in behavioral psychology.
Amy
The nightmare comes back three nights later.
This one starts in the alley, except in the dream, I never surface. The hands that find me in the dark have no face attached to them. I fight the way you fight in nightmares—when your limbs are made of water, and your voice is swallowed before it clears your throat. The horror of struggling hard and moving nothing.
I come up gasping.
The room assembles itself slowly. Lamp off. Streetlight through the curtain. The ceiling. My own hands, fisted in the duvet. My heart is so loud I can feel it in my ears.
I sit in the dark for twenty minutes, with adrenaline still running and the shaking not stopping, and at some point, I stop trying to manage it and just sit inside it, the way Dr. Osei taught me. Sometimes you don’t manage it. Sometimes you wait.
My door opens.
I know his footsteps. I have known them for weeks, their weight, their pace, what they mean. Safe. Safe. Safe.
Saint crosses to the bed without turning on a light, without asking, and sits beside me. He takes in my face and the shaking.
