I moved to intercept her with more speed that I would have ever credited myself. She whipped around to face me, her palms out, fingers splayed. It was a defensive move. Still I closed in, slower now. She was caught, it only took her longer to acknowledge it. Her eyes darted from me to the door. Stupid girl, always wanting options that weren’t available to her; wanting to create something that wasn’t there.
Her body was coiled — a spring wound and ready to unleash its restrained energy. Her entire being screamed flight. She darted, and I was there. There was no path around me that didn’t bring her just within my reach. She screamed loudly as I wrapped my fingers around her body and halted her. My fingers laced into her dark hair, wrapped securely in the delicate strands. I forced her head back painfully, halting her slide to the floor.
My next breath drew in her scent. The shampoo she used, the delicate notes of the soap, all played upon my senses. It didn’t help assuage the heat that filled my skin. I wound my hand tighter until she cried out, until the strands were just at their snapping point. My grip controlled the movement of her head. I could feel the warmth of her skin, the way her heartbeat echoed down each strand as clear as a note played upon a violin.
‘Marco.’ My name was a softly spoken sob. Her hands fluttered in the air around my fingers, helpless to relieve the pain, too afraid to try. Each intake of breath came with the soft noise of pain. ‘Please.’ She said to me. I saw a silvery streak run down her face. Another.
I slid behind her, not speaking, pulling up until her hands dropped to her sides, helpless, but too restless to remain still. My other hand moved around her waist. I took perverse pleasure in the slow slide of my palm, making the gesture needlessly sexual. I felt her muscles jerk beneath the thin t-shirt she wore, the plainest of the garments she’d been provided. I stroked my thumb over her belly.
‘Do you yield, bella?’ I said this in her ear, my breath sending a shiver in her which I was too close to miss. She tried to nod her head, but could not. Instead she responded with yes, spoken in such a way that hissed over my skin like a touch.
I walked her forward until she faced the blank wall ahead. Tears fell silently, rapidly, from her eyes. Yield, a word that held meaning for her, that served to remind her that I had not forgotten our ‘battles.’ My hand slowly eased from her hair, and her body uncoiled as I did so. I shook stray hairs from my hand. My other hand still stroking her stomach. Her head fell forward.
It was then she pushed back, her palms striking the wall and shoving back, pushing us both away. I swayed on my heels, rocking backwards. She tried to run, but fell in the tangle of our legs. She struck the floor, and I kicked her violently in the side. She cried out and curled into a ball.
My movements were jerky, fueled by another dose of adrenaline and rage. I crouched down, one knee to the floor, my fingers digging into my pocket, pulling out the switchblade I always carry. It flicked into place with the sound of metal on metal. The sound stopped her movements dead cold and she stopped breathing when I place the edge of it to her throat, pressing in until I could feel the flesh start to yield under the honed edge. My other hand settled to hold one of her wrists to the floor by her head.
I drew it down slowly, pressing the point in just enough to make a dotted line form on her flesh from her neck to collar of her tshirt. I lifted the edge with the tip of the blade and looked at her face again, her eyes were wide, doe-like. I could smell the fear that poured off of her, the uncertainty. I could kill her, she knew, but I think she feared more what I could do to her that she would survive. She’d seen the photo album I keep of my better work.
She opened her mouth and started to speak but the words were muffled by my palm - leaving her wrists crossed above her head. I wondered when she’d remember them. ‘Enough of your lies.’ I whispered it leaning over her, placing my knees on either side of her. It was easy, she still remembered to respect the knife if not the bearer. My mouth hovered over her face, still covered by my hand. ‘You’d have me believe you were the Virgin reborn.’ I tilted the blade and the fabric of her shirt yielded.
‘But I have already taken care of that minor detail, haven’t I?’
I didn’t wait for her to answer, and instead drew the blade along the neck of her shirt. The fabric yielded as certainly as she would - splitting under the drag of the blade. I could feel the warmth of her uneven breathing - wondered at her thoughts. I watched the skin that appeared as the shirt parted. My fingers moved from her mouth, and I allowed them to slide over her collarbone, down between the valley of her breasts, uncovered because of a carefully omitted garment in her wardrobe.
When I reached the end of her shirt, I pushed it open. My fingers went to her side where I had kicked her. I ran my palm over it and she hissed. My eyes darted back to hers. My thumb ran over the warmth, the forming bruise that would soon be there. ‘Hurt?’
Her breath caught. I stilled my hand, felt the unwelcome familiarity that renewed between us. She blinked, moistened her lips. I caught each nuance of her expression, felt it in my blood. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Said, as she did, so fucking slowly.
It was an effort to tear my gaze away from her, but it was drawn immediately to the knife in my hand. I smiled. She made a noise, I closed my thighs more closely around her. My hand was slow in moving, but I dragged the blade to the edge of her nipple. I pressed it against her skin until she jerked. I leaned over her. My mouth was open, hovering just above her lips. I could feel her breath, she could feel mine. I twisted the blade, she gasped.
‘I can smell your fear.’ I inhaled sharply, closing my eyes as I did. When I opened them, I leaned over until our lips brushed lightly. The tip of my tongue flicked lightly over her bottom lip. ‘Taste it too.’
The blade turned slowly in my palm and finally pierced the thin barrier of skin. She let out a soft sound, her voice reverted back to a soft whisper, every bit of her fight having left her. She was still heavy, pinned in place by more than just my weight. ‘Please, Marco.’
My eyes lifted from the suspended drop of blood poised on her nipple to her eyes, which stared at me, glassy, filled with anxiety. ‘Please what, amante?’
I glanced back down at the exposed flesh and smiled as her nipple tightened further. Her body was quaking, and my gaze was tactile from the response I saw of goosebumps in her skin. I shifted further down her body, my fingers brushing the soft curve below one breast, skimming across golden skin. She opened her mouth to speak, likely protest, but I silenced it by leaning forward the closing my mouth around her nipple. The sound choked off in her throat.
I knew when she made the discovery of her unbound hands, when I felt them lace into my hair and tug me back from her body. It was weak, but I allowed it, even as my eyes narrowed on her face, and the blood pulsed in my head, poised to react. That she would make the effort was a different Annerire than I was used to seeing and the contrast made me want to know what else had changed about her. It was an eagerness to investigate, to dissect, to find the lowest common denominator.
The taste of her skin, the single drop of her blood, still lingered on my tongue when I I lifted myself only slightly from her, and pressed one of her hands against the floor beside her head. It stayed there when I let it go. Her other hand had already started the slide down from my hair, and I caught it with my fingers as it did. My thumb stroked her palm, along the slenderness of her index finger. I drew it into my mouth, my tongue sliding over soft pad of her fingertip. I bit the tip lightly as I pulled it out of my mouth. The knife I held, I brought to the tip, slid the edge just under the nail.
‘Stop me again, Annerire, and I’ll take the nail off this finger.’
I dropped her hand and she curled it against her chest, covering what she could. My palm dropped to the waistband of her soft, black pants and I curled my fingers just inside the band. She met my gaze steadily until I pulled sharply on the fabric and it began to tear it from her body. Tears rolled out of the corners of her eyes. When I pulled back on the fabric, she reached for it, forgetting temporarily about her shirt as she frantically sought the remaining inches of fabric still clinging to her skin. I shoved her back and flung the offending fabric from us.
I leaned over her, settling my weight back against her, forcing my leg between hers. ‘Tell me no.’ I said it, watching her face. She tried to turn from me, and I pushed her chin back with the same hand still holding the knife.
She exhaled sharply, her eyes squeezing shut, fighting the urge to defy and the instinctual need to protect herself. ‘No-n-no.’ It was soft.
‘What? I didn’t hear that.’
‘No. No, Marco.’
‘Again. Say it again.’ I dropped my hand to my waist and loosened my belt. I tipped the knife against her skin, slid it along her neck.
She shook her head quickly. I pulled my belt from its loops. I kissed her jawline, dragged my mouth along its line to her ear. I tugged on her earlobe and growled softly. ‘Yield, Annerire.’
‘No. No.’
‘Annerire?’ I said, her name was a thick syrup on my tongue.
‘Marco?’ She blinked as she looked at me. My palm cupped her cheek, smoothed away the traces of her tears. ‘Marco?’ She repeated.
‘I don’t care.’ I said.
And then I kissed her.
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