The sting of the slap burns fiercely on her face as she's knocked to the ground, scrabbling at the wet grass. Her lungs burn, and she's so fucking sick of running away. She stands up and faces Conor, her chest heaving.
"What in fucking hell were you thinking, Mia?" he says in a low, savage voice. "Huh? What the fuck goes on in that head of yours?"
She shakes her head before she can stop herself. "I'm—I'm sorry."
He stares at her for a long moment, eyes glassy with anger and—fear, she thinks. Then he lashes out again, swift and precise, and her head jerks to the side as she stumbles.
"Ow, fuck," Mia whimpers. "I'm sorry, a'right? Stop hittin' me!"
"Don't you ever fucking tell me what to do," Conor says, and he's right in her face, chest inches from hers. She can feel the dizzying heat from his body on her skin.
"You're no better than me," Mia shouts, unable or unwilling to stop before she's in even more trouble. "What the fuck were you doing with my mum, you've got a bloody wife and kid—"
"Shut up," Conor says, terrifying in the dark, eyes glittering murderously and his face cast in shadow. "Shut up, you stupid little girl."
She swallows her next words, gasping for breath and feeling as if he'd punched her in the stomach.
They stare at each other, standing alone in the dark field. Mia moistens the parched skin of her lips. She doesn't miss the way his eyes drop to follow her tongue's movements.
"Why'd you fuck me," she asks flatly.
"Because I liked you, and you wanted me to," Conor says, voice equally even. Even angry, when he talks about fucking her his voice drops to a low cadence that makes her skin tighten and flush.
"You were fucking gagging for it, Mia," he says, lingering deliberately over the words.
She spits in his face, hot with shame and anger, and he grabs her by the hair, the muscles of his arm flexing and bunching as he drags her closer.
"Are you trying to make me angry?" he asks, voice grating. He's trembling faintly, though with what emotion Mia can't guess. "Is that what you want?" He crowds against her, looming over her in the dark and swallowing her field of vision until he's all she can see.
"I don't give a single bloody fuck if you—" and that's all she gets out before he yanks her head back by her hair and he's kissing her, hot and harsh and rough with stubble. Her knees go weak and he grabs her around the waist with his other arm, pulling her against him and pressing his palm against her back, hot between her shoulderblades.
"Conor," she gasps out between kisses, and he responds by pulling her to the wet ground and into his lap. His hand spreads roughly over her chest, under her singlet, and then he's shoving her pants down to her knees, fumbling with his belt, and then, and then.
He presses hot and hard inside her and she lets out a strangled cry that he stifles with his mouth, panting into hers as he shoves and flexes. He's so much stronger than her, can so easily physically overpower her, and it makes her feel something dark and liquid and needy inside. She whimpers, thighs trembling, and a gush of molten heat between her legs makes Conor groan through gritted teeth, head tipping back.
"Fuck, Mia," he says roughly, almost wincing. "You're so fuckin' tight." He's got a hand gripping her thigh and one curled around the nape of her neck, and she knows he's going to leave bruises and she doesn't care. The denim of his pants scratches the soft insides of her thighs, his belt buckle digging into her flesh, and she doesn't care.
He fucks her hard, harder than he has any right to be certain she can handle, and she likes it.
Later, when he's finished and wet heat is dribbling down her thighs, he helps her dress, kisses her softly, gently.
"This can't go on, Mia," he says lowly. "You're only fifteen years old, for God's sake." There's more than a touch of bitterness in his tone.
"I don't care," Mia says, nakedly. "I—I wanna be with you."
He curses, turning his face away from her and taking a deep, slow breath. "I can't leave my family, Mia." He turns back to face her. "Do you hear me? I can't leave them."
"I don't need you to," she lies through her teeth. She wants him so viciously she doesn't care if she has to share him, doesn't care that it'll kill her to share him. "I just—don't leave me."
He stares wildly at her. "Mia," he pleads. "After all I've done to hurt you, why do you still want me?"
She shakes her head lightly, biting her lip. "I dunno," she says faintly. "I just—no one's ever wanted me before you. I—I was a virgin, y'know. I was lyin' when I said I fucked that boy."
"Ah, fuck," he curses, staring at the ground and running a large hand through his ruffled hair. "Mia, that was your first time? That night on the couch?"
"Yeah," she mutters, scuffing the toe of her trainers on the ground. "Don't make it weird or anyfin'."
"It is weird, Mia," Conor says, gentle now, and she wishes he would stop saying her name, because it does something to her, something melting and painful. "It's weird that you lost your virginity to a thirty-five year old married man."
Mia feels her face twist and she looks away before he can see her cry.
"I don't care," she says again, at last. "I don't care if it's weird." Her eyes well up, stinging with salt, and she sniffles quietly.
He sighs. "Ah, no, don't—hey, hey, c'mere sweetheart."
She goes into his arms without question and he tucks her underneath his chin, stroking her hair with a feather-light touch. She feels safe and contained and she wonders if this is what it feels like to have a dad. It's probably beyond twisted for her to think something like that about the man who just fucked her on the cold ground, but she's past caring.
"Don't leave me," Mia whispers damply into the collar of his shirt, and he doesn't.