103. GOOD MORNING

103. GOOD MORNING
Arianna

The buzzing pleasure intensifies, a dark current humming through my veins. My mind blanks, senses narrowing to the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

Then, with a swift, sure movement, the rasp of fabric against zipper is followed by the heat of his skin against mine as he frees himself.

I can’t bring myself to look, breath trapped somewhere in my lungs, as he pulls me closer, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against my wet folds.

There’s no prelude, no gentle easing.

He thrusts, hard and deep, filling me, stretching me past my limit, and I gasp, a choked sound lost against his shoulder as the cheap bathroom sink rattles violently beneath us.

He fucks me like a man possessed, each thrust a declaration, a brand seared onto my soul.

It’s a raw, demanding rhythm that steals the air from my lungs and leaves my limbs heavy and useless.

I drool against his neck, the taste of him intoxicating, my moans muffled against his skin as he continues to ram into me, holding me pinned in place against the edge of the unforgiving sink.

Just as the world begins to tilt sideways, a dizzying swirl of sensation, I crest, a shattering wave of release that clenches around his cock, milking him dry.

He stills for a split second, muscles corded and tight, then grabs a handful of my hair at the nape of my neck, holding me captive as he finishes with one last, agonizingly perfect thrust, shooting his load deep inside me.

With the last shuddering spasms, I loosen my hold on his neck and see the evidence of my desperation etched there - bite marks blooming crimson against his skin, a thin trickle of blood welling up. But Vincent doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t break the rhythm of his harsh breaths as he pulls back slightly, just enough to press a bruising kiss to my lips.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning after you’ve had breakfast with Nicole, got it?” His voice is rough, laced with an expectation of obedience that broaches no argument.

Wordlessly, I nod, my body too drained to do anything else.

He smiles, a knowing, predatory curl of his lips that acknowledges my utter surrender.

He knows the power he wields, the devastation he leaves in his wake, and he revels in it.

His fingers brush through my hair, a surprisingly gentle caress before he presses a final kiss to my temple.

When he finally leaves, the silence in the apartment feels thick and heavy.

I drag myself to the shower, scrubbing away the evidence of our encounter, the lingering scent of sex and raw need, before returning to the living room where Nicole is still sprawled unconscious on the couch.

Sliding under the shared blanket beside her, exhaustion pulling me under, a strange, twisted smile ghosts across my lips as I fall asleep.

___

Oh, joy.

Another morning greeted by the delightful symphony of my back protesting against the unforgiving contours of Nicole’s couch.

Honestly, whoever invented these things clearly never intended for human spines to actually interact with them for more than, say, five minutes.

I shifted, groaning for dramatic effect – because what’s waking up without a little theatrical suffering, right?

At least I had the foresight to shower last night and change into my night shirt.

Small victories, people, small victories. It could have been worse. Imagine waking up still entombed in that dress from yesterday.

The one from before Vincent decided to grace Nicole’s humble abode with his presence, just to, you know, ‘check in.’

Like I’m some sort of prized, slightly rebellious, pet hamster he needs to make sure hasn’t chewed through the cage bars.

He calls it ‘making sure I’m safe.’ I call it… well, let’s just say the sore muscles in certain areas are a testament to his unique brand of ‘safety protocols.’

But who am I to complain?

My core felt like it had been put through a gentle – and by gentle, I mean utterly brutal – wringer, and my legs were protesting with every fiber of their being.

Delightful. I squinted open my eyes, battling against the offensive sunlight that dared to stream through Nicole’s aggressively cheerful floral curtains.

Apparently, the sun hadn’t gotten the memo that I wasn’t in the mood for relentless optimism this morning.

Peeking around the living room, I noted the distinct absence of Nicole. Typical. She’s probably off doing something disgustingly productive, like yoga or…shudders… meditation.

My suspicions were confirmed as the tantalizing sound of sizzling bacon wafted in from the kitchen, accompanied by the comforting whistle of a kettle doing its kettle thing.

Ah, civilization. Or at least, Nicole’s version of it, which usually involves copious amounts of caffeine and slightly burnt breakfast.

With another groan that could probably scare off small woodland creatures, I hauled myself upright from the couch’s clutches and trudged towards the kitchen.

It looked like a culinary bomb had detonated. Food packages were strewn across the counter like casualties of war, flour had mysteriously migrated from its container to seemingly every surface, and utensils were engaged in a chaotic dance around the sink.

Nicole, bless her disorganized heart, was standing amidst the delightful chaos, spatula in hand, looking like she was conducting a very loud, very fragrant, orchestra of breakfast.

“Mornin’,” I croaked, my voice still clinging to the remnants of sleep and possibly a slight hint of Vincent-induced exhaustion.

Nicole jumped like I’d just set off a firework behind her. The spatula wobbled precariously in her grasp, almost taking a nosedive into the sizzling bacon. “God! Don’t scare me like that!” she exclaimed, whirling around with wide eyes that suggested I had indeed given her a minor heart attack. Honestly, I live for these moments.

I chuckled, because apparently, my sense of humor is directly proportional to my friend’s jump-scare reflexes. “Just admiring your…artisticarrangement of breakfast supplies,” I deadpanned, approaching the counter with the cautious steps of someone navigating a minefield of food items. “What culinary masterpiece are you concocting this fine morning?”

She glanced down at the pan, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, clearly unfazed by my sarcasm because, well, she’s Nicole and sarcasm is basically our second language.

“Eggs with bacon, the usual champion breakfast, and your favorite waffles with honey cream. Remember? The ‘Nicole’s hangover cure special’ whenever you decided to grace my humble abode with your presence after a night of questionable decisions.” She emphasized ‘questionable decisions’ with a knowing look that probably referred to several past incidents we both preferred to vaguely remember.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, you’re right,” I admitted, a genuine warmth spreading through me at the thought of those fluffy waffles. “I missed your food.” It was true. Nicole’s cooking, despite its chaotic execution, always managed to hit the spot, especially in moments of… let’s just say, ‘post-Vincent’ recovery.