Missing You

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

She looks over at him and rolls her eyes, scooting herself away from him. Leaving his back exposed and cold, she knows it would unnerve him to lose his warmth. 

He rolls over and groans, “It was just a joke.” He can’t tell with his eyes closed, but her mischievous grin isn’t hidden in her words when she replies.

 “You always say that,” she pouts. “Why can’t you ever say you missed me too?”

He reaches behind him and pulls her leg around his waist, caressing her calf. 

“Babe, you know that I do. Quit your whining,” he says with annoyance. But her calf and toes are warm with his touch, it tickles a bit. 

He scoots toward her so she can nuzzle herself against his back again, closing the distance she doesn’t really desire. She threads her arm through the space between his and plays in some of his chest hair with her pointer finger, drawing unread words into his heart. She wonders if he can understand them, if he could feel her touch mark and burn his skin, embedding the words into his flesh until his blood boils. He grunts and shifts, tweaking her elbow when she knicks him with her nail. She rubs her fingertips together, noticing the hot slickness between them is his  blood. 

“I’m sorry,” she kisses into his spine, his heart beating steadily on her sensitive lips.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, taking her coated fingers and pressing it against his heart. For a moment she is unsure before she kisses up his neck, pulling herself closer and higher with her leg, grabbing a clump of his chest hair for leverage. 

He grunts at this, and she can’t help but drag her hand up from his chest, smearing a trail of blood against his skin, loving the way the width of his neck feels in her grasp. His grip slides up her thigh and tightens, bracing, his breath bated in anticipation of her next move…

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks.

He nods eagerly, not wanting to delay the building ecstasy; he sweats through the firm vice of her body contorting around him. 

She swings herself on top of him, and traps him between her legs, unable to take her dark eyes off his delicious neck; mesmerized, entranced. His sleepy eyes are wide but unfocused as he takes her weight, hands full of wanting.

She raises her eyebrows, “If I wanted to hurt you, what would you say?” 

Now his eyebrow raises, his mouth in a cocky snarl.

She leans down close enough to graze her soft lips against his, “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Indelicate eyes rake her body with hot looks and sharp glances, his hands aflame on her thighs with the meaning of his thoughts. 

She tightens her grip around his neck, slowly sinking her nails into his flesh, craving more, “But you hurt me, didn’t you?”

His brows meet between his eyes, confused at her timing, concerned with the strength in her palm.

She moves her other hand to his throat and begins to squeeze, choking him, loving the way his gasps echo in the room.“She was just a friend, you said.”

His eyes grow wide as his grip weakens, watching his hands fall limply at his side; his hips can’t buck her off no matter how hard he thrashes, and eventually even those fall silent and slack.  

“Aren’t you going to beg?” she smirks, “don’t you have an excuse?”

His eyes bulge with strain—veins clouding out the peripheral, his narrowing vision can focus only on the pain, the hate in her features. Damn.

It takes all the strength in her to complete his demise, needing him to recount the pain he’s caused, the sick lies he invested. She squeezes harder and harder and harder, tears erupting beneath her eyelids, screaming all her anger out onto the dark walls, the rage he created when she saw him inside another woman. The audacity! To think she wouldn’t know!

She watches his body still, his eyes empty, lifeless, dead.   


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