Page 39 of Palingenesis
That disappointed clicking returns and he shakes his head, stalking toward me in a way that keeps the same amount of distance between us no matter what I do. Closer, even, edging until I can almost feel the heat radiating from him. “Still asking the wrong questions.”
“What are the right ones?” I yell, spittle flying off my trembling lips, and I grab the nearest sturdy thing. It’s a fucking plastic water bottle, one of those reusable ones, and I throw it at his head. He deflects it with nothing more than a flick of his wrist without breaking eye contact.
He steps closer to me, and I swallow hard. “There’s only one, Shannon.” His head dips and I’m frozen in place, waiting and trembling.
“Wh-what is it?” I whisper, my heart thundering with the realization of the minimal space left between us. “What do you want from me?”
I’d damn near do anything at this point, just to get it to stop. To make sense.
That sharp-pointed talon scrapes down the side of my face again, tracing the same pattern as earlier, and I suppress another shiver.
“I want,” he murmurs, face mere millimeters from mine. “For you—” that finger trails down my neck, raising goosebumps in its wake, and I gasp, “—to let me in.”
His hand wraps around my throat, gripping tight enough that my eyes bulge and I claw at his wrist.
“For you to give me what’s mine,” he adds.
I fight against his hold, bucking into his body, every nerve ending in my own firing. Choking, I grasp at his pretty face, the scar carving his cheek rough against my palm.
“Fuck… you,” I gasp.
It just makes him smile wider. He drops his head, the tip of his nose dragging down the edge of my jawline and he’s close enough for even me to hear his deep inhale.
“Keep fighting me,” he murmurs, voice grating, and presses against me.
His hard cock drags against mine, and I barely manage to reel in the whimper that clogs my throat when I’m just as rigid against him.
“Godsdammit,” I press between gritted teeth, my body not my own as I grind my hips into him.
My hands scrabble at him, pushing and pulling, both desperate to get away and desperate for more. To feel something, anything, that’s fucking real.
To know for sure if I’ve lost it completely.
Or if it’s the lack of oxygen preceding an imminent death.
“Just kill me now,” I mutter, my cock flexing behind my zipper. “Get it over with.”
His grip on my throat tightens, immobilizing me, save for the way I tremble against him.
“Why would I kill you when I could have you?”
I jolt at sudden pressure over my groin, his palm pressing into my cock and drawing a rough gasp right out of me.
“Fuck,” I rasp, lips parting when he adds pressure with his hand.
There’s spit rolling down my chin, my heavy breathing filling the room, yet none of it matters when I stare into his heated gaze.
The room shrinks, my vision filling with spots, and all I can see is him. All I feel.
All I want.
Fuck, if I could shake the thoughts from my head, I would. This is all so illogical and consuming.
But isn’t that the thing with desire? To feel yourself cave under the weight of something so surreal that it’s difficult to believe it ever happened?
To know that there’s something so profoundly encompassing simmering beneath your skin that only you can control it.
A hum of words fill my head, a mix of nonsensical phrases and signs, sentences I’ve written and heard. English and ASL funnel into one single thought that signals my hips to arch into his palm. Asking him for more. Begging for a release that feels like only he can give.
