I pushed gently against her, holding her against the wall and kissing her tenderly, trying to slow her. She growled in frustration, locked her arms around my neck, and lifted up, then slammed down with a satisfied moan, her lips leaving my mouth and stuttering across my cheek.
“Bed. P-please.” She was lifting up and lowering herself frantically, setting an impossible pace for me to keep while standing.
I carried us into our room and fell back against the bed. I didn’t have a chance to even straighten myself on the bed before she had her fingers twined in mine above my head, her hips sliding over mine. She rested her forehead against mine in a kind of desperate relief as she resumed her frantic grinding pace on top of me. Her br**sts bounced against my skin, and her thighs whispered soft as silk against mine. She was gasping into my mouth, riding me with a furious, wild abandonment. This was both hot and kind of scary, because her eyes weren’t entirely her own. She was possessed, in a way. She was wild-eyed, ferocious, leaning back on me to sit up straight, lifting up with her thighs and sinking down on me relentlessly, her hands buried in her hair, br**sts swaying and bouncing with each lift and fall of her body. God, she was so gloriously beautiful, and this angry goddess mood was something new, something I’d never seen in her before. She gave nothing to me. She took. I held her hips and let her ride me, gave her everything I had, not daring to speak, to whisper, to even breathe. She took all of me for her own, driving herself into an orgasmic frenzy, screaming through clenched teeth and then spitting an ululating moan with her head thrown back and her spine arched and her f**king glorious tits bouncing, and finally I lost myself in it, giving her more and more, harder and harder until she came a second time, and a third, because my baby could just keep coming and coming until she was too exhausted to move, and I think that was what she needed. I clenched my muscles and closed my eyes to block out the erotic sight of her body above me and focused on holding back even as I drove into her as hard as I could. She fell forward, planting her palms on my chest and grinding onto me in a new rhythm, not pulling out at all but grinding her clit against me and pushing herself over the edge yet again, mouth wide in a gasping shriek, eyes closed, brows raised, and yeah, I was watching her because I couldn’t help it, because Becca, such a giver in all things, was finally taking all of this for herself, because for some reason I couldn’t entirely fathom, she needed this, and so I would give it to her again and again until she was sated.
She rolled off me and onto her back, scrabbling at my arms and back to jerk me into place, grasping my ass and pulling me forward, shoving me into her and coiling her powerful legs around my backside and clenching me, pulling, pulling, thrusting with every muscle in her body against me. Her arms wrapped around my neck and she refused to let go, so I pressed my lips to her shoulder and planted my hands next to her ear and settled into a driving, almost punishing rhythm, hard and dirty and relentless, and she only cried out for more.
She took it, and clawed gouges into my shoulder when she came again, climaxing with a deafening scream. I’d held back for so long at this point that I ached for release, but she wasn’t done with me.
She pushed me away and turned onto her hands and knees, presenting her ass to me. God…damn. I didn’t know what it was about seeing her like that, but it was always my undoing. Something about her beautiful, taut ass presented to me, her sex-slick folds wet from our lovemaking, our f**king…it drove me wild. I plunged into her and she stuffed a pillow under her stomach, clutching the other pillow in her fists and rocking back into my every thrust, the slap of flesh a rhythmic echo in our apartment, and then she came again, and this time she clenched down extra hard with her vaginal muscles and I was buried deep and something in the way she moaned, something in the way she ground her ass against me and whispered my name was my undoing. I couldn’t hold back any longer then. I lost it, growling and pulling back and f**king into her so hard she whimpered, but it was a breathless “yes!” from her lips, and she rocked forward and crashed back into my next thrust, and then again, and then I was unleashing inside her, flood after flood, and she was clamped around me and spasming and crying out hoarsely and pressing her soft dark skin into me, not minding at all the way my hands clutched her hips with bruising power and jerked her against me with every spasmodic thrust of release.
She fell forward away from me with a sigh, rolling to her back, reaching up and jerking me roughly down to the bed. She found her spot, nestling in the crook of my left arm, her right leg thrown over mine, her hand resting low on my belly, her breathing whisking hot across my clavicle.
“Thank you, baby,” she whispered. “I n-n-needed it, just like that. I know it was…rough, but I nee-needed it.”
I chuckled. “Honey, I’m pretty sure that was the hottest sex we’ve ever had.”
She nodded. “I think s-so, t-too. I think I mi-might be able to slee—sleep now. I hope.” She was exhausted, wrung dry.
I held her tight and whispered to her over and over again how much I loved her. Eventually her breathing changed, and she was asleep.
She did dream, though. I held her through that, too.
FIFTEEN: The Aftermath
Jason
One month later
Becca wasn’t okay. For a while, I thought she was getting better. I thought she was coping. But then, about two weeks after Ben’s death—after his suicide—she seemed to start regressing. She never really got her fluency back entirely, but she was beginning the process of recovering it. She’d stutter less, block less, although she had gone back to sounding as if she was reading from a script.
Her entire family had basically shut down. Her mother and father had both taken extended leaves of absence from work, which, from what I’d learned about Mr. and Mrs. de Rosa over the years, was akin to the apocalypse. Ben’s death had rocked everyone, really. The entire community had been shocked. Ben was a fixture in the town, always around, always up to no good but nice to everyone. He’d kept the depths of his struggles secret from everyone, it seemed, and so his suicide had taken the community by storm. People who hadn’t really known or even liked Ben all that much were going to grief counseling. Parents had started taking a deeper interest in the mental and emotional health of their kids. Gradually, however, as weeks passed, things returned to normal. Her parents went back to work, and Kate continued at the hospital, seeing an OB/GYN regularly.
Except for Becca. She gradually began to speak less and less. It started with shortened responses, going from stutter-broken sentences to three- and four-word answers, and eventually to one-word answers. She was…listless. I would find her in bed at eight in the morning, a Kleenex crumpled in her fist, eyes open and staring into the middle distance. Becca hadn’t stayed in bed past 6 a.m. even once in the two years we’d been living together, whether it was Wednesday or Saturday, February or July. She’d been in the process of deciding on a school for after graduation when Ben killed himself. Now? She’d stopped cold. Stacks of acceptance letters sat unopened on her desk. Books for her senior-year classes were still stacked, unread, on her bookshelf. She was showing up for work, but that was it. She’d requested and gotten a change in position at the law firm, and was now filing paperwork and other duties that required little to no interaction with others.