Page 24 of The Square

CHAPTER SEVEN - DANNY

She holds her breath.And even though I can’t hear it, I know her heart speeds up. Her grip on the railing tightens and her back goes stiff.

She’s wondering who I am and what I’m doing, and if I had an answer for that I might offer it up.

But I don’t.

I have no idea who I am anymore.

I did. Not too long ago. I was Danny Fortnight, maker of custom motorcycles, partner to Brasil Lynch. Thief. Loner.

Then Christine came, and Alec came, and that Danny—he’s just gone now. But I’m not old Danny either. I’m something new. Some sick combination of the two.

I pump my cock a few more times, getting ready. Christine’s gaze wanders down to catch a glimpse. She’s already so wet.

It’s only been a few hours since we last fucked but it feels like we’ve been apart forever and we’ve got things to make up for.

Which isn’t far from the truth, really.

“Don’t let go,” I remind her.

She swallows, licks her lips, and nods her head. Silent submission.

Which makes me grin. And with that grin, in that same moment, I thrust my cock inside her, sliding her along the table’s surface with such force her head bumps into the railing.

She does not let go. She does just as I hoped. Stiffens her arms, pushing back on me so when I pull back and then thrust forward again, there’s resistance.

Not that I could push any closer to that railing. Her head isn’t even on the table anymore. It’s suspended in mid-air over empty space. Just the very bottom of her shoulder blades and the force of her arms, now bent at the elbows, keep her from being pounded over the edge and disappearing into the depths of darkness. So she has no choice but to resist.

I do it again, and again. Fucking her faster, harder with each forward push.

She grits her teeth, watching me. Nothing relaxing or soothing about it.

In fact she’s so crumpled up against the railing that I have to kneel on the table, hike her hips up, and prop the underside of her thighs over the top of mine, just so I can keep fucking her.

It’s a messy, messy fuck.

Nothing artistic about the picture we paint. Nothing slow, or sensual.

It’s just… erotic and hard.

And she’s probably thinking, What the fuck, Fortnight? What am I? One of your little sluts you pick up in random cities?

But if she is, she doesn’t say it. And I don’t stop.

She’s not one of those whores.

This is just how I like to fuck when Alec’s not around.

I reach forward, grab her hair with both hands, pull her upward, then place one hand across the middle of her back with fingers splayed wide and hold her there.

We breathe hard and heavy as I continue to fuck her. Her chin is tilted up, her eyes locked on mine, her jaw tight as sweat rolls down her face, and my chest, and her wet, wet, so fucking wet pussy swallows my cock and then… there’s this moment when we stop.

We don’t really stop. I’m fucking her harder than ever and she’s gripping my shoulders with the tips of her fingernails like she’s clinging to the edge of a cliff. She’s hissing air through clenched teeth. Her hair is damp again, but not from the shower. It clings to the sides of her face from the hot, stuffy, humid tropical air that simmers above this salty ocean and wraps around us like a mist as the sun rises above the horizon and heats us up with the coming of a new day, and—

—we both explode.

I take her like that two, sometimes three times a day. Or night. And then in between, there’s the soft fucks. The ones in the shower where the heat comes from hot water and not the hell brewing inside me.