A Little Bit

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Warren

I’m on a timer.

Every time he holds me. Kisses me. Sucks me. Bites me. The clock ticks loudly in my mind, trying to drown out anything good I’m feeling, replacing it with a darkness that reminds me I shouldn’t be here. That I hate myself. That he will too.

He’s currently walking around my kitchen like he owns the place, naked as the day he was born, peering into the fridge, looking for a post-sex snack.

He let me fuck him again, flooding him with my cum until I could pull out and watch it drip out of him.

It’s easily the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Each time it’s happened, it consumes me. Something scarily possessive releasing inside my chest.

After popping a few grapes in his mouth, he loudly chews them as he saunters over to where I sit on the couch in the living room. His half-hard cock swings in between his legs, hypnotizing me as I lick my lips.

When he reaches me, he gets on his knees, squeezing his body between my spread legs, and just hugs me. It’s so warm and comforting. And I feel… safe. Tears spring into my eyes, which I quickly blink away.

“Why do I just want to hold you?” he rasps in that deep fucking voice that obliterates all my self-control.

A lump forms in my throat. “I don’t know. But don’t stop.”

Everything about him makes me feel so good. I close my eyes, trying to let the feeling seep in. But the darkness is there. Always in the back of my mind. Even when he’s making me see stars, his mouth a perfect, warm embrace, the gloom creeps up the back of my skull, waiting to take everything from me.

He sighs. “What are you doing to me?” It’s a whisper. So small and quiet.

I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent. He’s the one doing something to me . Making me feel these things. Things I don’t deserve to feel.

“I don’t even usually bottom,” he says absently as he pulls back to let his mouth roam my neck, biting and sweetly sucking on skin.

“Y-you don’t?” I say, slightly surprised.

I know he mentioned wanting to fuck me when we first started this thing, but I had no idea he didn’t usually bottom. He’s not the type to do things he doesn’t want.

“No,” he says, running his nose up my neck. “But I’ve been trying to let you adjust to the whole liking dick thing.”

Something warm spreads in my chest while the darkness does its best to tamp it down.

“But next time”—he brushes a wisp of hair off of my forehead—“I’m going to tear your tight cunt in half with my cock.”

I just nod, unable to form any other words because that sounds… amazing. To be completely owned by him. It sounds right .

Sitting back, he blows a breath up his face, trying and failing to get some of his hair from hanging in his eyes. “I need a fucking haircut,” he says, now running his hand through his hair to collect it on top of his head. “I can do a little bun now. Look. I’ll show you.”

Without waiting for an answer from me, he glances down at my wrist, ripping off one of the rubber bands I’m wearing.

I squeak and quickly pull my arm behind my back, both because I don’t want him to see what’s underneath and because it still hurts pretty badly from the last time I punished myself.

The other day, I went to the store and bought a big bag of rubber bands. The marks I’ve been making are starting to take up more space the longer that I stay with him. The longer I race against the timer. So, I’ve been wearing more to hide them from him. Just three or four is usually enough to cover them up. For everyone else, long sleeve shirts disguise the pain, but not him, the person who strips me down and worships my body.

He eyes me questioningly, rubber band in his hand and frozen in mid-air. “You ok?”

I swallow and nod while my heart pounds in my chest. Can he hear it? I hope not, because I’m desperately trying to look calm on the outside even as my eyes start stinging.

“What’s going on?” he drawls slowly, raising an eyebrow at me.

Okay. Time to put on the acting skills. I’m fine. This is fine. He’ll show you his little bun then give it back. Just act completely normal.

But nothing can seem to actually come out of my mouth. I don’t trust it. I’m pretty positive that if I try to say anything, I’ll just break down, letting him see all my pain. And he can’t see that. No one can. But especially not him.

His eyes flick down to my arm still firmly behind my back. He reaches for it. I watch his hand, moving like it’s in slow motion, feeling completely helpless. I crane my neck to look up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly at the ridiculously ornate chandelier glittering above our heads. “Please don’t,” I whisper.

He ignores me, tugging my arm out of its hiding place. And I let him, because I’m fucking tired. Of hiding. I have nowhere to go with him. He encompasses every part of me. I’m surprised I kept this secret for so long. Or the other one.

His touch is tender as he flicks on the lamp next to us, presenting my shame in HD for him.

He gingerly removes the rubber bands from my wrists, his breath quietly hitching when he reveals my wounds underneath.

Red hot shame washes over my entire body, making sweat bead up across my pores.

Over the last week, since I took him back, I’ve been attacking myself almost nonstop. Times where I felt deliriously happy, my memories brought me back down, demanding that I remind myself of what I deserve.

Pain.

Misery.

Loneliness.

His fingers ghost over the marks, making me wince. They’re still red and swollen from earlier, a few open red cuts from where I snapped it enough to break the skin.

“You do this to yourself?” he asks in the painful silence.

I don’t answer him, worrying my bottom lip while I stare at the floor.

“Is this because of… us? Of being with a man?”

Yes. And the other thing. Mostly the other thing, recently.

“Why?” he asks.

My eyes dart to his, prepared to see the disgust and judgment that should be there, but they just look hurt.

I shake my head at him, looking down again while the stinging in my eyes grows painful the more I try to keep the emotion at bay.

“Whatever you’re thinking”—he grabs my face, cradling my cheeks in the most gentle of gestures—“you don’t deserve this.”

The tears I’ve been holding back spill down my cheeks, hot and angry. “Yes, I fucking do,” I croak at him. “If you knew?—”

He stops me, gently kissing my lips. “You don’t deserve this,” he repeats more forcefully into my mouth.

I cry harder, the salt of my tears flavoring our kiss as he holds me much too tenderly.

Pulling back, he asks, “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“The bathroom,” I mutter, suddenly so tired.

He stands, lifting my limp body with him. I wrap my legs around his middle, clinging to him like the parasite that I am.

Walking over to the bathroom, he flicks on the light and places me on the counter, opening up various cabinets and drawers until he finds the kit.

He opens an antiseptic towelette and presses it to my wounds. It immediately burns, making me hiss and look away. He affectionately rubs my thigh with his free hand while he pats the towelette over my wrist and opens up a packet of ointment, dabbing it on.

Unwrapping a large, white bandage, he places it over my wrist, pressing the adhesive to make sure it sticks, then leans down and softly kisses the bandage, making more tears roll down my face.

He lifts me off the counter and walks to my bedroom, where he deposits me in bed, climbing in next to me and pulling the comforter up to cover both of our bodies as we lay on our sides, facing each other.

“When you hurt yourself, you hurt me,” he says while his fingers and eyes trace the bandage he just put on me.

A sob catches in my throat. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the fact that he knows this.

He pets my hair. “This is… this doesn’t seem like something I want for a little bit anymore,” he says quietly. Vulnerably.

My eyes snap open, glittering with hope. Something I have no business feeling.

“So, you can’t do this to yourself,” he continues. “I”—he pauses, searching for the right word—“care about you.”

“If you knew?—”

He whips his finger up to my face, placing it over my lips, silencing me. “Stop,” he commands. “Nothing could change my mind.”

I want to tell him that he’s wrong, but I stay silent. Not saying what I should for the millionth time, stealing the comfort that’s not mine to take.

He smirks and whispers, “I knew you were broken inside.”

A weird, wet laugh bubbles out of me. “So, what? You’re going to fix me?”

He shakes his head, his face rubbing against the pillow. “Nah. I’ll help you carry around the broken pieces until you realize you have the power to fix yourself.”