“Strange Love” - Halsey
I stand on the porch, staring at the doorbell, my nerves completely rattled. I go to ring the bell but stop, quickly digging through my purse for a tube of lipstick. I touch up my lips, comb my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath. Ring it, Miranda. Just do it.
And I do, my finger shaking. For a split second, I debate turning around and leaving. Because what am I going to do once I step through that door? It’s six in the evening. And I’m at his house. Why? Because he thinks he’s going to fuck me? That is what that email basically said. And here I am, because I want him to fuck me… shit…
The lock clicks. My pulse speeds up. The knob twists. I take another deep breath. The door opens, and here I stand, my mouth hanging open with not one fucking word to be found.
"Hello, gorgeous," he says, a beer in one hand, a tired look in his eye, but a smile still on his face. "I'm glad my emails didn't scare you off too much." He sidesteps and puts a hand out for me to come in.
"Nope. Not at all." I step inside.
He closes the door, sighing. "It's been a hell of a day. It's nice to see a friendly face."
He leads me to a couch in the front living room. The inside of his house is bare except for the artwork he most likely found at a garage sale. No photographs or personal touches. Only essential furniture and an old box TV.
"Can I grab you something to drink? I've got beer or some whiskey or vodka."
"Sure…"
"Well, I can't really pour 'sure' over ice, so what'll it be?" he asks with a snarky smile.
"Vodka's fine. Thanks." I settle back into the couch, watching as he makes his way into the kitchen adjacent to the living room.
He opens the freezer and pulls out a bottle of vodka. "So how’s working with EA going?" With a grin, he drops ice into a glass, fills it with vodka and water, and walks it carefully over to me. He hands me the drink before retrieving his beer from the coffee table and taking a seat beside me. Really close beside me.
"Uh, okay, I guess…" I bring the glass to my lips and take a slow swig.
He sips his beer and reaches for the TV remote, flipping through a few channels before turning to me with a hopeful look in his eye. "Speaking of… when do I get to meet this guy?"
"Yeah…” I laugh and shake my head. “Trust me, you're better off not meeting him. It'll ruin the image you have, I assure you. The more time I spend with him, the more certain I am that he is actually a psychopath."
He laughs loudly, shaking his head, and sets the remote back down. "Yeah, I'm sure he is. I'm sure Stephen King has seen his fair share of dead bodies too. You gotta be a little fucked up to write that kinda stuff. I mean, aren't you?" He winks, his lips spreading into a smile—and those damn dimples…
At first I’m put off, offended. But he must be joking. So I pretend to be that girl. “Yep.” I smile. “Sure am, and you invited me into your house." My eyes drop to his full lips, and I inch just a little closer to him. “And now you’re all alone with me.”
"Lady, I've spent four years on the streets of Asheville and three more before that killing towelheads. If anybody in this room is bordering on psychopath, it's me." He lets out a nervous laugh, and his hand comes to rest on my thigh. He lifts the beer bottle to his lips but doesn't take a drink. "Shit." He chuckles, his thumb gently gliding over my leg. "You must think I'm nuts. I'm totally kidding by the way."
Shrugging, I take another drink of vodka, trying to not pay so much attention to his hand on me. "Sure you are."
"Oh, I only mean it wasn't any of that stuff that knocked my screws loose. That came looong before."
"I'm not worried. At least, if you plan to kill me, make it quick. I wouldn't be much fun anyway. I'm not the begging type…" I immediately bite my lip and shove the drink back in my face.
He slants an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk on his face as he removes his hand from my leg. "Begging, you say? Now, there's a thought…" He taps a forefinger against his chin.
I give him a good shove in the arm. "Don't even think about it."
"Hey," he says, nudging me back, "you brought it up. I'm a man. I can't help where my mind runs from there."
I glare at him, my heart slamming against my ribs because I want him to make me beg. I want to fuck him. I shouldn’t, but I do.
"Oh, and I have handcuffs," he says with a laugh, pulling back as if bracing for another hit.
"Are you really supposed to use those off duty? Wouldn't that be abusing your authority or something along those lines, Detective?"
"Well, Ms. Cross, who exactly is going to know other than us?" He looks around then back at me. "I won’t tell if you don't." He winks and clicks his tongue.
Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, every last inch of my body. I’d let him handcuff me and choke me. I’d let him do a number of things to me I wouldn’t let any other man do because he looks capable. He looks as though he would ruin me. And that dirty part of the soul that every last one of us has, it wants to be tainted. It yearns for something to make me feel filthy.
A smirk inches across his face, and he grabs my jaw, his eyes dropping to my lips as he leans in. His mouth is warm and soft and right against mine. His tongue parts my lips. His fingers work into my hair. And the next thing I know… he's dragged me into his lap. I'm straddling him, slowly grinding my hips against his and moaning into his mouth like a whore. Like a dirty, filthy whore. And all that does is make him kiss me harder, more deeply, more brutally. His teeth rake over mine, his hands now on my waist, his fingers skimming underneath my shirt.
"Fuck, I want you," he says against my lips, and I nearly lose all control. He wants me…
He grabs the waist of my jeans, pops the button, and rips the zipper down. And just like that, his hand is between my legs, his thick finger rubbing over my clit, across me, sliding into me. It's been so fucking long since I've been with a man—never a man like him—and I find myself holding my breath, my head tossed back. His lips work over my neck, every few inches biting and nipping at me. His knuckles press against me, bruising me as he fucks me with his hand.
All I want to do is touch him. Timidly, I trail my hand over his shirt, his hard chest and stomach evident beneath the thin material. I hesitate when I get to the waist of his jeans. I take a moment to feel his fingers inside me, flexing and bending. I swallow, my chest rising in ragged swells as I slip my hand inside his jeans, the head of his dick already wet from pre-cum. My fingers slide over him, my body drowning in a heat of want and need and primitive desire. And just as I pull his fly open, just as I wrap my fingers around the girth of his dick, just as I feel my muscles clenching, my body submitting to his touch… doubt slams over me.
I push away from him, stumbling as I stand and back away from the couch, out of breath. "I, uh… I, um…" I swallow. I feel my cheeks heat. My gaze strays from his dick to his hand wet with me to his shocked expression. "I…"
"Do you not…" His brow furrows. "I mean, I thought…"
"I just, um. Give me a minute."
I turn and hurry down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror. Red lipstick is smeared all over my face, my chest splotchy. I'm going to fuck him, and he'll leave me, and then I'll hate him, and I think the biggest problem is I don't want to hate him. I want to pretend there is something good in this life. Pure and like those goddamn romance novels I so despise because at the end of the day, the idea of love weakens even the most cynical of creatures. The thought of owning someone the way that emotion does… it's addictive. And if I fuck him, that stupid fucking fairy tale will be incinerated.
Fuck the fairy tale. This is real life, Miranda. Fuck him and leave him. Use him just like you were used by all those people. That man—I need to look at him as an experience. A muse. Because love is bullshit. People are selfish. And that feeling of having a man inside you, having a man need you so badly, even if it is only for a few moments, well, I guess it's better to have that than nothing at all.
I call his name, staring at my reflection and telling myself not to regret this. "Jax, will you come here for a minute?"
I hear his footfalls come down the hallway. They stop outside of the door. He pushes it open, one brow arching when he peeks around the door. I motion him in with a curved finger, a slight smirk on my lips.
The second he steps in, I grab his face and kiss him. Hard. My palm glides over the front of his jeans, his swelling dick evident. I grab it and bite his lip. And then hands are on my shoulders, slamming me against the wall. Jax covers my mouth with a brutal kiss. His fingers dig into the curve of my waist, and a low growl slips from him. His teeth rake over my bottom lip, and he presses his body against mine, pushing me hard against the wall as he grabs the bottom of my shirt, bunching the material up. His rough hands drift up to my neck, his fingers slowly wrapping around my throat just below my jaw, the kiss growing deeper, rougher with each passing second.
I grab his arms, my fingers grasping his hard biceps for dear life. I want him to fuck me to within an inch of my life. To the brink of death. And this slow teasing is winding me up like a tight coil, the tension nearly unbearable.
One of his hands drifts down my stomach, his fingers skimming the waist of my jeans before he grabs between my thighs, palming me. I can't resist this urge to push against him, ever so slightly grinding against his hand. I should fight this, drag it out, but his warm lips, the taste of his tongue, the way it feels as if he’s everywhere on my body but not nearly enough, not in the way I need him to be—I'm close to losing every bit of fucking control I have. His hands find their way into my hair, and he fists it, yanking my head to the side as he tilts his head ever so slightly, his eyes locked on mine in a stare so intense I fear I may lose a piece of myself I'll never get back if I give in to him. And you know what? He can fucking have it.
"Fuck, Miranda," he breathes before his lips meet the crook of my neck, his teeth sinking into my skin just enough to force a hiss from my mouth.
"Goddammit, fuck me already," I say in a breathy moan, a plea, my fingers grasping for the bottom of his shirt and tearing it over his head.
And with that, clothes are ripped off, hands are all over the place, feeling, touching, gripping. His naked body presses me into the wall, the heat of his skin driving me completely mad. He fists his cock, and I open my legs, giving myself to him. His mouth is on my throat, each uneven, ragged breath rushing over my skin. Each groan right at my ear. He rubs the tip—the warm, hard tip—against me.
"Shit, you're fucking wet," he says right before he grabs my ass, forcing my hips against his. The head barely goes in. He moves away from the wall, dragging me with him, his fingers digging into my ass as he lifts me and sets me on the edge of the sink. "I'm going to fuck you right here."
I grab my knees, opening my thighs as I pull my legs to my chest. He looks at me spread out just for him, for him to do whatever the fuck he desires. That look—that is what every woman wants. The way he's looking at me is completely unhinged, out of control. Like an animal, a beast.
There is no foreplay, no warning, no soft caresses. Jax slams into me so hard I have to grab the sink edge to keep from falling into the bowl. I gasp just like a whore. I moan. I pant. And at moments, I hiss because he is fucking me hard. Using me. Skin slapping against skin. And to be honest, I've never felt more like a woman than I do with him buried so deep inside me it hurts, his hands gripping my hips with such strength I know I'll be bruised.
His hands move up my sides, trailing up my back until he’s cupping the back of my head. He presses his sweaty forehead against mine, his gaze boring into mine as he fucks me. And I’m losing it. I want to scream. And I do.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" My hands slip over the counter, knocking most everything—cologne, toothbrushes, bottles—into the sink. "Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh fuck." I'm about to fall over that edge into an oblivion of moans.
"Oh, no, hun. Not yet you don't." He drags me off the sink and turns me around, bending me over the counter. “I want you to watch me fuck you.” He stares at my reflection with a slight smirk. He grabs my hair, wraps it around his wrist, and yanks my head back as he leans down by my ear. "I wanna watch you come, Miranda."
He thrusts back inside me, and I watch him tear into me. Jaw clenched, head thrown back—until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, until my vision starts to swim. My chin drops to my chest.
"I said watch me," he says in a growl, his hands wrapping around my throat and forcing my head up. He squeezes, and I moan. His fingers twitch over my throat, and I gasp. "You like that?"
I want to nod. To say yes. But I can't. I reach out to grab onto whatever I can. The tumbler on the counter is knocked to the floor, glass shattering all over the tile. Heat drowns me, buzzing over every last inch of my flesh, and my body goes limp within his hold. Weightless. In a fog of bliss and filth. Seconds later, Jax releases me, pulling out, grabbing his dick, and staggering back. I look up, watching him in the mirror as he tosses his head against the wall. His eyes close; his mouth hangs open, hard breaths coated with primitive groans rumbling from his chest as he comes on my back.
As soon as his orgasm has worn off, he glances up, his eyes locking with mine in the mirror. "Fuck."
I smile, pretending I am that girl who will just walk away from that guy. But I'm not. I'm really not.