Page 39 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He fucks me hard, every thrust punching out small, desperate noises from the pit of my gut. His hand doesn’t waver from my throat, keeping my body stretched out and helpless. The violence of it feels weirdly safe, and there’s a corner of my brain that wants to thank him for it. I’m so raw I can’t even close my eyes, so I stare up at his face, contorted with want and focus, sweat beading at his brow, his teeth bared as he bears down.

He bends to kiss me again, messy and open-mouthed, and now I taste blood on my lips, iron and spit and feral hunger. I bite his lip, and he shudders, slamming into me in reply, filling me so deep I choke on my own gasp. My whole body arches, every muscle banded with a cutting pleasure, my nails carving lines into the velvet.

“God, fuck, fuck— ” I’m not even human anymore, just a conduit for sensation, every nerve hooked to the axis of our bodies.

He lets go of my throat and brings both hands to my hips, holding me harshly and rutting into me with mechanical regularity. My abs flex, my thighs trembling, and underneath it all the shameful thrill of being fucked like this, of being nothing but a sheath, a hole, a goddamn vessel, and loving it so much it burns away every cell of fear.

He places one hand on my low belly, pressing down and grinding his palm against the outline of his cock, and it’s so much, too much, I claw at his forearm to make it stop, but he just says, “Take it, petit chaton,” and the command in his voice is a switchblade. I come again, pulse after pulse, hoarse and stupid with need.

He follows a few strokes later, biting down hard on my shoulder as he rams and then spills inside me, a hot rush that makes me whimper with relief.

We’re both shaking and heaving, our chests pressed together in the humid dark. He’s heavy, but I can’t bear for him to let me go. I listen to his heartbeat, fast and irregular, so close it could be my own. There are tears on my cheeks—maybe his too; I can’t tell. He nuzzles my neck and breathes out a soft, almost reverent sound.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with ruin.

For a long time, neither of us moves. I don’t want to move. Being held feels safe, even if it’s by a man whose cock is still inside me, whom I should not trust, whom I barely know.

But it’s fine, because I don’t want to know him, at least not much more than this. I don’t need to feel pressure to learn all his likes and dislikes, or worry about what the future holds for us.

I’ll go back to the U.S. in a few weeks with some money in my pocket from the sale of the cottage and the best sex I’ll probably ever have in my life as a cache of memories.

9

Camille

Ryan departs soon after our coupling ends.

It’s not like I was expecting him to spend the night, but the speed at which he left leaves me feeling off.

I stand in the entrance hall, one hand braced against the edge of the open door, watching him cross the courtyard beneath the low amber glow of the exterior lamps.

He is walking poorly, I think, smirking to myself.

Not dramatically so, because Ryan would probably rather crawl home on his hands and knees than allow me to see that I have affected him, but there is a slight stiffness to his gait that was not there when he arrived, his steps careful over the uneven gravel, and his shoulders drawn up around his ears as though determination alone might disguise the occasional hitch in his movement.

I offered to walk him home.

He looked at me as though I had proposed carrying him across France in my arms. “Camille, I live next door.”

And sure, there are perhaps three hundred metres between my front door and his, but still, I could have walked him over.

Ryan had glanced toward the bag he left beside the table in the library earlier in the evening, gathered it against his chest, and informed me with impressive dignity for a man whose hair remained disordered from my hands that he was entirely capable of surviving the arduous expedition back to his place.

Regardless, the evening accomplished precisely what I intended—potentially even more.

Ryan has responded to every attempt at assistance as if generosity is merely coercion wearing attractive clothing. Offer him a ride, and he walks five kilometres in the heat. Recommend a tradesman, and he spends an afternoon attempting to communicate with one himself. Suggest that he allow someone else to rebuild the garden wall, and he nearly crushes his own foot beneath a stone before admitting that masonry is not an intuitive skill.

I had believed his resistance was directed specifically toward me.

Tonight taught me otherwise.

I no longer believe that Ryan objects to needing me; he objects to needing anyone.

There is a distinction.

An important one.

And now I understand how to use it.