the things we do in the dark (+18)

9

Give a man an inch, and he'll take a mile. And dear Augustine is well over the inch Iverem is willing to give him.

He ignores her thrashing and says: "If you could change one thing about your life, what would that be?"

Iverem rolls her eyes. "What are we doing? Twenty-one questions?"

The smile he gives her warms her chest. Iverem tries not to wonder why. "Just entertain me for a bit longer."

"Fine." She makes a show of thinking about the question. "Maybe for you to fuck off."

The crease that grows between his eyebrows suggests she's wearing at his patience. She sighs, "my childhood, I guess."

He snakes a hand from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, not in a possessive manner but commanding. "Hmm..." he inquires, leaning in a bit. His smell, the musk of oranges and cardamom, makes her lightheaded.

"My mother; I think many things in my life would be different if I had a more supportive family."

"I can relate to that," he says, that familial wound evident in the resonance of his voice. "Family always seems to be the biggest disappointment."

For a moment, just a moment, Iverem sees that lost boy in August – unsure of himself, searching for approval. August's vulnerability would have repelled her if it wasn't for his grip on her neck. August is inconsolable, irredeemable. He's the dark cloud that ruins a sunny day. Jonah had told her so. Jonah's mother had also told her so. Then why did she understand the heaviness of his words? Why did she understand his pain?

"You can let me go now," she whispers, eyes locked on his jacket zipper. She can't be this close to him right now. Iverem doesn't know if she can stop whatever's about to happen next.

"What if I don't want to let you go?" he whispers. "Iverem, look at me."

Why the fuck are we whispering?

He tugs at the roots of her braids, tilting her head until she meets his gaze. His desire is smouldering, whipping Iverem up into its burgeoning flame. When he kisses her, she doesn't fight him; his kiss is too consuming for her to even wonder why she doesn't put up a fight. There are too many "why's" pertaining to her attraction to August, but she decides to worry about that later.

Her back ends up pinned to the gazebo's railing, her fingers running through his brown curls, her breath shallow. He rests his lips on her temple as the hand around her waist lands between her thighs in a bruising grip. There is pleasure in this pain; it is wrenching and violent, ugly and needy; it makes Iverem feel dirty. But as soon as August slips his hand under her underwear, sliding his fingers along the folds of her cunt, she ceases to think.

"Come for me," he says, pressing down on her clit before plunging a finger into her.

She moans, throwing her head back. Snowflakes hang onto her hair and those that don't sting her hot skin. The expanse of her neck is open wide, exposed. And when August's lips and teeth seize this unclaimed landscape, instead of feeling weak, helpless, as she usually does when she is about to come, Iverem feels free.

"Thank you," Iverem says when the buzz of her climax wears off.

He smirks at her.

"You're ruining the moment," she says.

"What?" he shrugs, pulling his hand out of her pyjama pants as seamlessly as he slipped them in. "I didn't say anything."

"That look on your face says more than words ever could."

"Jonah never make you come before?" There's a teasing intonation to how he asks this question; he's being lighthearted. But there's nothing lighthearted about this situation. Iverem finally knew what she had to do. She had to break up with Jonah because he's never made her feel the way August did just now, which is deeply depressing. She barely even likes August.

"I need to go," she says without glancing at him.

He doesn't say anything, not even to call her back or tell her how fond he is of her. No matter how silly it sounds, Iverem wishes August would keep her from having to return to her life just a bit longer. But maybe it's best that he doesn't.