Fury

by Cat Porter

  “Ah!” I pulled back, and he chomped on my vulnerable cone, devouring the last bit.

  “Hey!”

  “It’s so good.” Finger laughed, a hand wiping at his mouth.

  I punched at his massive, solid shoulder. “The last bite is always the best.”

  “I know,” he said, eyeing me. He brushed my cheek with his cold, wet lips. “I’ll make it up to you, baby. I promise I’ll lick you better than I did that ice cream cone.” He bit my earlobe. “And bite you.”

  “Hmm.” I licked my fingers, my insides as gooey as the melted ice cream.

  But I couldn’t wait.

  I tugged on his hand, leading him around the corner. A narrow side street. A tower of fire escapes gleamed at us overhead. I stepped in a puddle as I pulled him against me, leaning against the slimy graffitied wall. We kissed hard, and I lifted a leg around his hips, pressing into his erection.

  “Fuck me.”

  He chuckled under his breath as I unsnapped the buttons on my bodysuit between my legs, under my skirt. He fumbled with his jeans and hoisted me up. I slid my hand over his smooth, hard length and guided it to where I needed it to be. I tightened my insides around him, holding onto his cock.

  “Baby, shit.” He throbbed, his body stiffening against mine. “Jesus.”

  The world moved around us in the shadowy dark as we took our bite of bright heaven.

  We ended up at Dave & Busters, a new large arcade on North Clark Street and played pin ball and race car games. Finger played a shooting game, a huge plastic rifle in his hands, his shoulders rigid with focus. He landed every bullseye. He was good.

  Of course he was good. This was a game played for tokens with imaginary digital targets, but out there on the street, on the road it was the life he lived. I’d lived it too.

  We exited the arcade, and I spotted a photo booth at the entrance.

  “Come here!” I tugged him inside and pushed him down on the stool. I sat in his lap, and he pulled me in close. Popping change in the slot, we posed making faces, crossing our eyes, another with our tongues sticking out and touching, the last with our faces pressed together, serious.

  We waited, and finally, the strip landed in my eager hand. “Oh, look. I love them.”

  He kissed the side of my face. “You’re going to have to get rid of it, though. Promise me. Tomorrow, rip it up, throw it away. Leave no clues behind.”

  “I know,” I said, my fingers clinging to the edge of the damp strip of photos. “I know.”

  We went by the art gallery where Tania worked on Wells Street in River North. Tonight they were having an opening for a new contemporary painter who had been getting lots of buzz. Finger studied the huge canvas of abstract purple and mustard strokes in the front window of the gallery.

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?” he asked.

  “Whatever you want it to be,” I replied.

  Tania noticed us from inside the gallery. She only raised an eyebrow and shot us a grin. She knew how to keep things discreet at all times. I smiled back at her.

  “You want to go in?” Finger tugged on my hand.

  “No.”

  “You sure?” His eyes creased. He hated keeping me from doing things or going places I wanted to go to because of us having to keep our anonymity.

  “I’m very sure. I go to these all the time with Tania. Not being a painter or a sculptor or some kind of artist or gallery person, I’m not invested in having to go to all these parties and be seen, hang out, and make contacts and all that like she is. I enjoy them, but not all the time. And anyway, this is our time together.”

  He kissed the side of my face, his arm circling my shoulders pulling me in close. “Yeah, it is.”

  Two women exited the gallery, strutting down the sidewalk past us, and my eyes zeroed in on their Japanese-style asymmetrical coats and oversized scarves.

  “You like clothes a lot don’t you?” he asked, tucking my hand inside his large gloved one.

  “No, I LOVE clothes.” I laughed.

  “All you girls do, don’t you?”

  “My grandmother and I were really close. She pretty much raised me, and she had lots of hobbies she shared with me—knitting, crocheting, sewing. She’d taught me all those things by the time I was ten. I’d pick out patterns for a dress or a blouse, choose a great fabric, and then we’d rush home and pin the pattern on the material, cut it out, and then she’d sit at her sewing machine and bam—new dress, new blouse, new skirt. The whole process was very satisfying. Fashion for me is about how colors and textures and lines sing together and create a particular magic for each individual.

  “Oh man—particular magic.”

  “Yes. Unique possibilities. Fashion isn’t some static work of art that you stare at like those paintings on the wall at the gallery. It’s more.” My face heated. “For me, anyway. Sounds silly?”

  “No, I like it. I get it. You got all excited there. Your eyes lit up.”

  “Oh yeah?” I stood on my toes and pressed my lips against his warm ones. “I only light up for you.”

  His eyes closed, his tongue swiping at my lips. He took in a deep breath. “We need to get back to the hotel because I’m dying here.”

  “Do me here.”

  “No fucking way. As much as I love your demanding side, this park is a wide open space. Any weirdo could come along and try to get in on our action. Then I’d have to kill him, then the police would come after us. Just a shitty idea all around.”

  “Then I’ll make good use of this blondie getup and hail us a cab to get us to the hotel as quickly as possible.”

  “Good call.”

  I turned on the sidewalk and stepped to the edge, facing the steady stream of traffic as I raised my hand. A cab screeched to a halt before us within moments.

  “Maybe you should consider the blonde thing permanently, baby,” Finger whispered as we slid into the backseat.

  I gave the driver the address, and as soon as I got the street name past my lips, Finger’s hand went under my skirt, pushed past the elastic of my bodysuit, and slid down my pussy. His fingers stroked and dazzled me the whole ride, teasing me, keeping me just on the edge of coming. I clutched onto his leather jacket.

  “Is this because of the blonde hair?”

  He breathed heavily in my ear. “No, it’s because of your lush cunt.”

  “Did you really just say lush?” I let out a laugh.

  “That’s what it is.” His index finger thrust in my pussy and stroked against my inner wall, holding me prisoner. I let out a hiss.

  “I can’t wait to suck on this lush. Eat it up, fuck it with my tongue. I want to make your sugar sweet bod wet over and over just for me.”

  I groaned. “Then what?”

  “Then my cock is going to pound it.” He stroked quicker, his finger churning. “And this pussy’s gonna come on my cock. Come so hard, you’re gonna be shouting.”

  His thumb pressed over my clit roughly, and I stumbled on a breath.

  “Don’t shout now though, Sunshine. You stay real quiet for me, and I’m gonna give it to you so fucking good the second we get through the door. Then that sweet ass will be crying out for me, won’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” I breathed against his throat, my lips nuzzling his damp skin for dear life.

  I bit down hard on my lip refusing to moan and groan in front of the taxi driver. But that was proving to be really difficult as Finger spoke non-stop in hushed tones against my ear, my hips rocking against his hand more desperately with his every filthy remark. I glanced up at the rear view mirror. The driver shot us a curious glare.

  Within moments the taxi braked at the corner. “Here you go.”

  “You better pay, baby, ‘cause...” Finger broke out into a dark laugh. His fingers squeezed my clit one exquisitely painful last time, snapping at t
he elastic as they left me. He leaned back in the seat and sucked on his finger and thumb, shiny with my wet in the car light the driver had switched on.

  I handed the driver a ten dollar bill as Finger adjusted his jeans. I got my change and pushed Finger out the door.

  Holding hands, laughing, we raced up the creaky stairs of that grim hotel to our room. And in that room, we reveled in our own magnificent, beautiful world.

  20

  Almost two months later, Finger called me. Password given, and I headed downtown to a really cheap dive of a hotel that doubled as a rooming house for the homeless. We were in a tiny, shabby room that belonged to a friend of a friend of a friend of Finger’s who let us have it for the night. Coughing, arguing, the occasional curse echoed in the hallway along with the constant blare of the Cubs game on TV. We added to the cacophony with the screeching of the old metal springs on the twin bed we were fucking on.

  I always counted the days, the weeks between Finger’s visits. Keeping track kept me steady, and the anticipation made my insides hum. I looked forward to his visits, planning things to do and see. Being with him wasn’t only the hot times together in bed. Being with him was home to me, be it making love in a mildewy room at a flophouse in a bad neighborhood, sharing a deep dish pizza in a crowded restaurant, walking all over town arm in arm in the icy cold rain.

  His groans in my ear, his body crushing mine, a small smile just for me when he hardly ever smiled. My special, secret place was me and him. I danced there. Sang out loud and off key, hands in the air, his wind in my hair.

  I didn’t think I had much emotion to give anymore. Med had squashed that for me with his cruelty. But Finger, oh Finger, he was cruel and loving all at once. Brutal in his intensity, in the ferocity of his need, but delicate in his mercy, and that awakened the greedy, hungry woman in me.

  His tongue flicked and tugged at my nipple piercings. “Fuck, I love these. Fuck.” The arousal built again, zig zagging through my flesh, the kind of pleasure you think you won’t survive. Explosive. Furious.

  “Finger,” I whispered, my legs wrapping around his hips. “Need you so bad. Want your cock inside me.”

  He only made a grunting sound. He loved it when I talked during sex. Being with Med—well, you just did what you were told and only spoke when spoken to, and even then, you needed to agree with whatever he said. I hadn’t realized how I’d gotten used to that.

  With Finger, sex was a whole other level of freedom. Freedom to touch him, explore, to give to him, to play and know that the playfulness, that joy of discovery was appreciated and mutual. There would be no punishments, no retributions, no report card at the end.

  I roughly stroked his cock until it was hard and ready to do damage. That’s what I wanted. His fierceness taking me over. I scooted down and pushed him over on his back. Climbing on him, I sank on his cock and rode him. He held onto my tits in his tight grip and flexed his hips up into mine. The sight of his maimed hands on my body made my adrenaline spike, my blood rush to my head. My nipples stung and burned deliciously, and I grit my teeth and rode him faster, my fingernails digging into his wrists.

  “I love you,” I murmured. “Love you. Love you.”

  “I love you too.” One hand slid down my hip and held it, the other went between our slick bodies and rubbed my clit hard and fast. “I’m all yours, baby. You’re all mine, aren’t you?”

  “Only yours. Yours.”

  We reassured each other of this fact frequently during sex. Being apart for long stretches of time, often going without communicating because he was usually on the road on secret missions and not wanting our connection to be traced in any way. So when we were together, every word, every touch took on a mad significance.

  “All yours.” I came once more, tears and sweat blurring my vision.

  He flipped me face down on the bed and holding me there, thrust into me fast from behind, my hair in his fist. I ground back into him, tightening my insides around his hard length.

  Finger always went fast when he needed to come. He wasn’t only chasing his orgasm, but escaping the pain his body and his mind still associated with coming inside of me. His grip on my hair and back tightened, and I bit down on my lip as he tugged my head higher. My fingers curled in the nubby sheet, and my eyes found his.

  His jaw set tightly, his eyes were ablaze, his breathing heavy and harsh. Was he still fighting the memories? I thought so. Those memories were still alive in his hands, on his face.

  I tightened around his length again, and he groaned. “You and me,” I stuttered.

  Another groan.

  “Yes, yes, feels so good,” I murmured. Every time I felt I had to assure him, encourage him. Otherwise, we’d always be in Med’s grip, and there was no way. I was peeling it off for the both of us, layer by layer every time.

  His fingers dug into my middle, and he collapsed on top of me.

  Holding each other, we rolled over and stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the mold in the corners. He took my hand in his, and I closed my eyes, the sound of our choppy breathing lulling me into a sweet haze, the tremors of my flesh vibrating through me. I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. Sitting up, I slid the condom from his relaxed cock and took his damp cock in my mouth. I wanted to taste him and commit that taste to memory through the many days and nights ahead on my own.

  “Bitch, stop,” he groaned, laughing.

  Releasing his slick velvety smoothness, I giggled, resting my head on his middle. “I have good news for you, baby.”

  His scarred hand went to the side of my face. “Oh yeah? Tell me.”

  “I got into a design school, part time. I start in a few weeks.”

  “Huh?” Blinking, he wiped a hand across his eyes.

  I sat up and straddled his lap, facing him. “An art school here in Chicago. I got in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I applied to the night program at a school for fashion design and tailoring, and I got in.”

  He didn’t reply.

  My back tensed under his suddenly firmer grip. “I thought you’d be proud of me. Happy for me.”

  He let out a ragged breath. “I am. I mean, yeah, that’s great. Really great. I’m proud of you, baby, I am.”

  “Then?”

  “That means that you’ll be staying here, though. You see?”

  “Right.”

  “I want you closer to me. I thought that’s what you wanted too.”

  “I do want that, more than anything. But things haven’t really changed. I can’t just walk into your clubhouse, the two of us hand in hand, can I?”

  His eyes tightened, his jaw hardening. He was angry, frustrated.

  “What is it? Did something happen? Tell me.”

  “It’s Med. I saw him. He’s still looking for you. He’s real pissed. He made accusations about me taking you, and my prez defended me. All my bros did.”

  An icy chill stole through me. “Shit.”

  “We got to keep things real tight for a little while longer. So, yeah, actually, you staying put here is probably for the best. Little while longer.”

  A dull weight rolled over me like a heavy boulder, but I shoved it back. I wasn’t going to dwell on Med, not now. No way. “I have more good news, too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I qualified for a work/study plan at this school, a paid internship. And I’m going to keep working a few days a week plus weekends at the store.”

  “Cool. You still liking your job?”

  “I love my job, and I’m loving my new name, too. There’s something clean about it—Ashley Wyeth.”

  He let out a huff of air. “Hey, Ashley. You give amazing head and fuck like a demon.”

  I squeezed his balls.

  His hand slapped around my wrist. “Why don’t you do that a little nicer, while you tell
me about your school?”

  “Turn over. I want to see my name on you again.”

  A smirk full of heat etched his face. He loved that I loved his surprise for me, a new tattoo on his skin. He turned over, and my fingers ran up the long gothic S, for Serena, now inked on his upper spine. The letter was hidden in the long plume of flames that rose from his lower back, fanned out across his shoulder blades and blew all the way up his neck. I kissed and nipped his spine then turned him over on the mattress, my hand slowly stroking his thick length. His body relaxed as I blathered on about the kinds of classes I’d be taking.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “You’re happy. You’re excited about something you really like, and I’m glad.” He planted a light kiss on my mouth, letting out a soft moan.

  “I get excited by you.” I squeezed his firm dick.

  “I know, but I mean, you’re excited about something new in your life, an objective, a passion you want to explore.”

  “A passion, yeah, that’s what it is.”

  “I’ll give you money to pay for it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” His index finger lazed down my middle and slid between my legs. “Let me share in your excitement.”

  His finger wound and circled its way to my core. My breath hitched as he gently, gently stroked, and I lost myself in the sensations he knew so well how to conjure in me. I came quickly, crying out.

  “This is all because of you, you know.” I kissed him. “I wouldn’t be here in Chicago pursuing dreams I didn’t know I had if it wasn’t for you.” My trembling body curled into his.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice low, a hand around my neck. “Are you crying? Those are good tears, right?”

  I only nodded, unable to find my voice.

  His finger traced the vine up my side to my breast. “Your ink is wild, and keeps getting wilder. I feel like I’m missing out on something with you, and I hate that. It makes me realize how far apart we are every time I see you.”

  I met his gaze. “Every piece is about me, me and you. Us. Like spring blooming. Our spring. We’re different than we were before the Smoking Guns. They damaged us, but it made us stronger. We have color. Great big splashes of bright color, great big bursts of it, all outside the lines, and I want to celebrate that.”