“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, sweetheart.”
Your eyes want to roll into the back of your head. You hate when he does this, puts on this patronizing fucking act like he’s so much older than you or something, like he knows better than you do. He wraps a hand around your wrist, and you’re suddenly very aware of the thin bones there as his thumb brushes over your pulse. Hopefully, he can’t feel it skip as he steps up to breathe on the back of your neck like a fucking creep. “Told you I don’t want you drinking as much.”
The cold air of the fridge washes over your chest as you stare longingly at the Fireball that’s been sitting there, untouched, for two months. He’s right, you need to drink less, but... “I do what I want.”
He laughs, pulls your arm up and behind your back til you can feel the stretch in your shoulder. “I think we both know that’s not true.” He lets go when you start tugging your arm free, stays close as you turn to him. No man should look that good with a mustache. You had thought that the first time you saw him, across an auction hall in New York. He ended up getting the item, and your attention. Two years later and you have something that could be called a relationship, if you squint. August shows up whenever he’s not doing whatever he does for a living, spends a couple days in a safehouse with you. You’re not sure what his job is, but you know it involves killing people.
Neither of you ever talk about fucking other people; you haven’t, not since this started. You hate him, naturally, and he’s crazy, but you can’t pretend you’re any better than he is, not with your past. You’re also a little afraid of what he’d do if he thought you were cheating. You could probably take him. Probably.
“Whatever. I told you to stop sneaking into my place. Just call.”
He shrugs, eyes on your face, then dipping to where your button up is gaping open. “Is that my shirt?”
You close the top, defensive. “Maybe. I don’t know.” It is. He shrugs, reaching out to rip it off you, buttons flying. “Hey!”
His eyes are on your face now, totally focused in a way that’s too intimate, makes it uncomfortable. His favorite answer to everything is “It isn’t personal,” but truth is, he loves when he gets to be close to his victims, watch the hope and life fade from their faces. He loves being close to you, too, watching as the fight leaves your face when pleasure creeps in.
“Shut up. You know what I’m here for.”
You slap him. Not hard, not even enough to hurt, just enough to turn his head to the side. “Back off!” You don’t mean it, not really. It’s no fun without a fight. His grin has you backing into the cabinets, the knobs digging into your shoulders. Maybe you went too far this time…
“You want it to hurt, sweetheart?”
He takes your head in one massive hand, thumb pushing into your mouth, maybe by accident. Probably not. “I can make it hurt.” He holds your head still against the cabinets as he rips off your panties. You can hear him undoing his belt and your pulse flutters, caught between desire and fear. He’s never really hurt you before. You think, you hope, that he’s as into this as you are, and unwilling to harm you permanently.
You feel his other hand at your hip the moment before he shoves his cock into you, lifting you up onto your toes as you yelp. “It hurts!” you slur around his thumb.
“You’ll manage.” His hand leaves your head so he can take your ass in both hands to lift you, bounce you on his cock with no defense. You wrap your legs around his waist and hold on, clawing at his shoulders. He fucks like a train, with no interest in skill or making you feel good, just raw power. It feels good anyway. You can hear the embarrassing wet noises as your body adjusts and welcomes him in, completely unaware he’s a general unrepentant asshole. He can’t be all reserved like this, breathing hot into your neck, spreading you open so he can brush his wet thumb against your asshole. You clench up with shock, but he just laughs, bites you again. “Relax. I’ll save that for later.”
“I...hate you,” you hiss, groaning each time he fucks up again, so deep you feel almost pained. It hurts, you’re going to be sore later. You’re still going to come on him.
“Why’re you so wet, then?”
“Hush. I don’t really care. Come in the next thirty seconds, or you won’t come at all.” It doesn’t take more than a touch of his hand to your clit before you come humiliatingly fast, gritting your teeth against the need to say his name. He doesn’t stop; you’re halfway convinced at this point that he’s a cyborg. He just keeps going, until you’ve come again, toes curling, leg jerking.
When he doesn’t stop at that you get teary, overstimulated and sore. “Please...August…” He knows he’s won. He could stop now. He doesn’t. He lets you down onto wobbly legs, but pushes you face down over your kitchen table, holding your wrists together at the small of your back with one hand.
“I’m done when I’m done.” You stare forlornly at the remnants of your lunch from earlier as he crouches, looks at your cunt. The first time he did this you had tried to close your legs and squirm away. He had laughed, and spanked your clit til you screamed. You’re used to it now.
He’s so clinical about some things, examining you. You feel his fingers at your cunt, spreading you open. “You hurt me,” you mumble into the wood of your table.
“I like hurting you. Look how red you get. Especially down here.” He stares for a moment more before standing, putting a hand on the back of your neck to hold you still. Having him inside you burns.
It’s only a few minutes until he comes, though, filling you up and grinding in deep so it stays. There has never been an option to have safe sex; he’d laughed when you gave him a condom, the first time. You have a very careful birth control regimen now.
Finished, he leans down to kiss the back of your neck, and you smile into the wood of your table. When you stand, your legs are shaking, cum dripping onto your thighs. You feel dazed and a little overheated, like you always do when he shows up and does this.
August tucks his cock away, retrieves his belt and buckles it. He scoops you up, walks the few feet to your bed and lays you across it. The torn shirt is still on, open. He isn’t the kind of man to snuggle, but he lets you put your head in his lap as he sits at the foot of your bed, going over the paperwork he never lets you see. You curl up, tuck your hand between your legs where you’re still slick, and fall asleep. August will be gone in the morning, like always. You’re used to it.