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You wake up in the middle of the night, smelling smoke and - is this barbecue? Sitting up you feel for the light switch, hearing a whisper before you reach it.
“It’s me, babe. Go back to sleep. I’ll take a shower.”
You smile, falling back in the pillows. Since Juice stole a key to your apartment he comes by from time to time. At first one night a week. Now: Not always, but on a more regular basis, four to five times a week.
The lath floor creaks and the mattress sinks in at the moment Juice joins you in bed. You turn around, scooting in his arms.
“You smell like coconut and vanilla,” you smile against his chest, taking a deep breath.
“Mhm. Sure thing. Remind me to bring my own fucking shower gel with me.”
“You good?” You ask him, feeling tautness and stress exuding from him.
“No. Shitty day.”
“What happened? Wanna tell?”
“We’ve lost Filthy Phil and V-Lin. Hap and I burnt and buried them.”
“Oh, my god!” That’s why he smelled like – you feel suddenly sick – smoke and barbecue. “Burnt? Why?”
“Don't ask, that's nothing you wanna hear.”
“So sorry, Juice. I mean, I didn’t know them, but ...”
“Stop babbling, please, it’s okay.” He breathes, deep in, deep out.
In the light of a passing by car you see the pain in his expression. Just a second and it’s dark again.
“Baby?” He whispers, placing his warm hand on your ass.
“I really need to fuck you right now. That’s okay?”
“Kiss me and I’m all yours,” you smile.
In the moment his lips meet your mouth you’ve already lost your panties. He’s over you, hands on your tits, rough, fast and greedy.
“Juice,” you whisper against his mouth, “slow down, just a little bit, please.”
“Sorry, honey. Never fear, okay?” he answers hoarsely, kissing a trail from your chin to your belly button, “I’m just craving your warmth.”
His fingers find your clit and you feel more than you see how he gets rid of his boxers. You’re petting his back, his shoulders, and every square inch of his hot skin you’re able to reach. He’s fast and determined so your orgasm is not as intense as and shorter than you’re used to. You feel his fingers at your entrance, testing if you're wet enough to take him in. You spread your legs even more, making him groan in approval.
“Sorry, but I ... I need to be inside you. I’ll make it up later, promise,” he whispers at your ear and you place a kiss on his shoulder.
“Juice,” you moan only a second later, feeling the tip of his cock at your entrance.
“May I?”
You grab his head and kiss him but he breaks the contact.
“Babe? May I? Consent? Say it, (Y/N)!”
“Yes, consent. Fuck me, please, Juice.”
He’s rough and fast, way too fast for you to come again. It’s for him, to get rid of despair, grief and sorrow. He leeches on to you like he’s drowning, fucking you hard, making desperate sounds, so full of pain you wonder if he’s crying. As you try to touch his cheek he pins your wrists beside your head in the mattress.
“No, don’t. Don’t,” he pants, fucking you deep and ruthless.
In the moment his orgasm hits him he presses his temple against yours. You hear his heavy breathing and his mumbled pleading for forgiveness.
“It’s okay, Juice”, you whisper, embracing him with your legs while your hands are still in his harsh grip.
“This is the way a man should be buried in the night. Balls deep in the woman he loves. Not in a damn forest in a nameless grave. Chopped into pieces, burnt and unavenged.”
He tries to pull out but you stop him.
“Stay,” you whisper. “You’re safe. Try to sleep.”
“I’ll crush you.”
“No, you won't. Just stay. Please.”
You give him a sweet little kiss, bedding his head on the pillow over your shoulder.
“I love you too, Juice,” you whisper, buried under him, a few minutes after he fell asleep.