Page 1 of Tony

CHAPTER ONE - TONY

She cried after we had sex.

Every single time.

It wasn’t a sobbing cry. It was mostly silent tears, but they were tears all the same. They would well up in her eyes for a few moments, gathering there like perfect little pools of sadness, and then they would run down her cheeks. And if she was wearing make-up, there would be little black streaks after the tears settled.

God, that was hot.

And I remember thinking to myself… Dude. There is something seriously wrong with you.

Because I liked her tears.

No. That’s not even close to accurate. I loved her tears.

I don’t want her to be sad. That’s not it. I don’t want to hurt her, it’s not about that. But both of those things needed to be there for those tears to… you know, get me off.

But here’s the weird thing about her—she likes it rough. She has always liked it rough. So I would get rough with her. At first it was a little bit of pressure on her throat as I fucked her from behind, my fingers just barely pressing on that heartbeat throbbing on her neck. And God, she would moan. That turned into slapping her ass. Grabbing her tits. Pinching her nipples. You know, normal rough shit.

But she didn’t cry during any of that. She didn’t look scared at all, to be honest. She liked it. And I’m not a scary fucker. Not really. So she wasn’t afraid of me.

No. It was something else. Because she only cried after she came.

And it got to a point where that’s all I wanted. Once I had figured out this little display of hers, I went after it. I would get her off as quick as I could. Do anything she wanted to make it happen.

And then I would wait for it. I would wait for those tears.

If she was face down, or I had her pressed against a wall or a door, I would spin her around and fuck her another way just so I could come as I watched the tears fall down her cheeks.

There really is something wrong with me.

I tried talking to my brother Alonzo about this once. But how does one even begin to explain this fucked-up darkness inside my head? I couldn’t find the words, and he looked at me like I was a freak, and then I waved him off and said forget it.

That was a long while back. Rosalie Thompson was put into the witness protection program eight years ago. She saw something she shouldn’t have seen and we had to get rid of her. She got a new name. Belinda Baker. She got a new job—tattoo apprentice, I guess? She got a new town. Fort Collins, Colorado.

God, that year was a mess.

But the point is—she was out of my life and that weird craving for sex tears went away.

No other woman I’ve been with has cried after sex. And I never had an urge to make them cry. That’s… sick. And I didn’t do any of that with anyone else.

So it’s not me.

It’s her.

In fact, it was so much her and not me that after she left town—well, after we had our FBI contact force her into the witness protection program—I kinda forgot all about my tear fetish. Literally have not thought about sex tears in eight years.

And then one day, just a couple months ago, she came back. Rosalinda—as I like to call her now because I can’t deal with just giving up on her old name and accepting the new one the witness protection program gave her—appeared down in Key West, on my fucking street, with my brother’s long-distance fling and some tattooed asshole called Vann and ruined everything for me.

One look at her. That’s all it took. Just one fucking glimpse of that girl and all those freak thoughts about fucking her as she cried were back.

The only thing that saved me was the whole secret mission Alonzo and I were in the middle of. I didn’t really have time to think about her. The days were flying by, and shit needed to get done, and people from the past were popping up all over the place.

So I didn’t have time for a tear fuck.

And then our little secret mission was over and she was gone.

Just… gone. Doing her thing.