Tear You Apart. Megan Hart

Will takes a picture of the rock on my palm. “It means you have a creative eye. Most people would’ve passed right by that. Never looked twice. I wouldn’t have.”

      His praise warms me. My fingers close over the rock. I feel the press of it against my flesh. Impulsively, I hold it out to him. “Here.”

      He looks surprised. “What? No. It’s yours, for your collection.”

      “I have a lot and I always find more. You have it.” I hold it out again. “Now that you’ve seen this one, I bet you find them all over, too.”

      Will takes the rock and keeps it in his hand for a second or so before tucking it into his pocket. We stare at each other the way we’d both looked at the giant white statue of a head. Pondering.

      “What else?” I ask him when I can’t look at his face any longer.

      “I have a commission for some underground stuff. You up for it?”

      I can take the train into and out of the city, and I can find my way around once I’m there, but I always take cabs. I’ve never mastered the subway. I have a secret, not-unfounded fear of getting on the wrong train and ending up lost, and the smells can be overpowering. The sound of the subway, the clatter-clatter, echoing, hurts my teeth and coats my tongue with the taste of gray.

      “Of course.”

      It’s easy for me to imagine H.G. Wells’s Morlocks down here under the city, creeping along the tunnels and snacking on innocent tourists in I Love NY T-shirts and fanny packs. Will is serious as he takes shot after shot of the escalators, the curving tile walls, the dirty concrete.

      Watching him, I say nothing. I hand him his bag when he asks for it, and hold it when he doesn’t. Every so often, he shoots me a grin, and every time he does I’m surprised again that I’m here.

      “I’m all done for today,” he says at last. “C’mon. Let’s go back to my place, see what I got. I’ll make you dinner.”

      “Oh...I...” My mouth tries to make the noises that mean no, but it’s useless. I’m already following him. I knew when he asked me to meet him today I’d be going back to his place. “Sure. Great.”

      Will leads and I follow.

      He does make me dinner. Pasta, bread, salad. Wine. I eat but taste nothing. We talk, and I hear the sound of my own voice in answer to his, but if you asked me what it was I said, I’m not sure I could tell you. I watch his hands, fingers on the fork twirling spaghetti. The sleek fringes of hair in front of his ears, against his cheeks. When he gets up to refill my wineglass, I breathe him in and keep myself from touching him by keeping my hands on the table, instead.

      Time for me to leave. I stand in Will’s foyer, and I look at the door I know I should go through. But first, of course, there’s got to be a goodbye.

      How do I say it? What do I do? I offer my hand, because what else is there to do for a man who is not my friend, and still mostly a stranger? Will, with a small, strange smile, takes my hand, and I think that’s the hand he uses to jerk off with.

      It happens all at once, so smoothly, how he pulls me close to him. He is going to kiss me. I am going to let him.

      At the last second, I turn my face. I can’t do it. To feel his mouth on mine would be too much. It’s already all too much. Will smiles and everything inside me melts, liquid, running hot. He pulls me closer. He doesn’t kiss my mouth.

      He kisses my neck, not softly or accidentally, but entirely on purpose. I don’t cringe and I don’t pull away. I offer myself to him as if I was waiting for this all along, and maybe I was and didn’t know it. But the first moment I feel the scratching brush of his stubble on my skin, all I can do is give up to it.

      I give up to him.

      My fingers thread through the back of his hair, holding his mouth closer to the sensitive skin of my neck as my own lips part on a sigh I cannot contain within the jail of my throat. Then my back is against the wall and Will presses against me, but he didn’t push me. I went there on my own. I pulled him against me. His leg eases between mine, his thigh pressing. My heel hooks over his calf. His kiss slides along my throat and jaw, but again, when he tries to kiss my mouth, I turn my head. My hands find the hem of his shirt. Don’t do it, I tell myself. Don’t. But I do it, anyway; I lift his shirt and let my fingertips find his smooth, hot skin underneath. His back. His stomach. The flat of my hand slides across him, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

      “I have to go. I really should go.” Murmured between kisses against his throat, the words are insincere. No matter what I should do, what I have to do, I’m not leaving.

      Will pauses, his breath hot on my cheek. He doesn’t move away, and oh, God, I can feel his cock, hard through his jeans, the thick ridge of it against my belly. I am undone.

      We stay that way for the in-and-out of three or four breaths. My hands are still under his shirt. I blink rapidly, a puddle of silk ribbons in my brain for a couple seconds when my fingertips skid along the small indents of his spine. Crimson silk ribbons, that’s what his skin feels like.

      “You should go,” he whispers. “You really should go.”

      But I’m not leaving, I’m following a few stumbling steps toward the small alcove beneath the loft, and the couch there. Leather, overstuffed... I think it’s black but it might be brown; I can’t focus on the color or the pattern of the pillows. My hands are flat on his chest, and Will lets me push him back onto the couch. Then I’m on top of him, straddling, my dress hiked up around my thighs, and his hands are skimming the edge of the fabric the same way mine did with the bottom of his shirt, and all I can think about is how much I want him to touch me.

      Everything is hands and mouth and teeth and lips and tongue. We fumble, and it doesn’t matter. Laughter stutters out of me like rocks skipping on a lake. I bend over him, yank at his belt, freeing him. My hair falls in my face, and he pushes it back so he can get at my neck again. My throat. I can not get enough of him.

      I push up his shirt, then pull it off over his head. Smooth, smooth skin. Hot. My fingers curl against his ribs. He has a tattoo, a stylized bird over his heart. My thighs grip his. His erection nudges me, thick and hard, and all I can think about is touching him. My hand strokes. His hips push upward. A groan slips from his throat.

      I did that.

      I did that to him.

      I want him bare in my fist. I want him in my mouth. I want Will’s cock inside me, but when he sits up with me still on his lap and his hands move beneath my dress, when he once more leans to take my mouth, everything slams to a halt. I tense and freeze, muscles going stiff.

      “Not on the mouth,” I whisper, feeling instantly stupid. What is this, Pretty Woman?

      Will doesn’t seem to mind. He mouths my jaw instead. His fingers slide along my skin, under my dress, between my legs, just a quick and almost surreptitious swipe against me. It feels so fucking good I want to writhe.

      What am I doing, what am I doing, what the fuck am I doing? The thought is like a train, rushing, no end to it that I can see. I curl my fingers over his and push them inside my panties. Against my clit.

      “Oh...yes.” The words slip out unbidden, but completely sincere. I shift a little so he can push his fingers inside me.

      “Oh, shit,” Will mutters. “Goddamn.”

      I wriggle out of my panties as he pushes down his briefs and jeans. Straddling him again, I take his cock at the base and rub the head of him against my slick, wet opening. Over my clit in small, tight circles.

      We both groan. I rub myself on his cock, or rub his cock on me, I can’t tell the difference anymore. All I feel is his hard flesh on mine and the spiraling, tightening coil of pleasure. I’m going to come before I even put him inside me.

      I move up, just a little, one hand on his shoulder, the other still gripping his cock to hold him steady while I fit myself over