Chapter 5: Storm Surge Confession
The front door was still swinging on its hinges when Ava moved. She didn’t think. She didn’t look back at the wreckage of her family in the dining room. She just ran, her socked feet slipping on the polished floor before she hit the porch steps and then the slick sidewalk.
Rain, sudden and torrential, drenched her in seconds. It plastered her thin dress to her skin, washed the heat of the confrontation from her face. Lucas was a dark silhouette half a block down, walking with a stiff, furious stride.
“Lucas!” Her voice was swallowed by the drumming rain.
He didn’t turn.
She ran, bare feet slapping against the wet pavement, cold water kicking up her calves. She caught up to him under the flickering neon of a closed bodega, her hand closing around his bicep. The muscle was rigid as iron.
He spun, his expression wild in the chaotic light. Without a word, he shoved her back. Her shoulder blades hit the rough brick of the building’s wall, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. He crowded into her, his body a wall of heat against the chill rain. His hands, rough and demanding, slid up her soaked thighs, pushing the sodden dress up to her waist.
He found nothing but skin. No underwear. Just the smooth, trembling flesh of her hips, her ass, the wet heat between her legs she hadn’t bothered to cover when she’d pulled the dress on that morning, frantic.
A raw, gritted sound tore from his throat. “You ruin everything,” he growled, the words hot against her rain-streaked face. “You fucking obliterate it.”
His mouth came down on hers not to kiss, but to consume. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a battle for breath that tasted of rain and cheap wine and fury. She kissed him back with equal violence, her hands fisting in his soaked shirt, pulling him harder against her. She could feel the rigid line of his erection straining against his jeans, pressing insistently against her thigh.
“You told them,” she gasped against his lips when he broke for air. “You said you loved me.”
“I hate you,” he breathed, his hands squeezing her bare ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “I hate that you made me say it there. I hate that I can’t fucking think straight because all I see is you on your knees.”
One hand slid around to her front, his fingers pushing through her slick folds with no preamble. She was already swollen, aching, her body thrumming with a chaotic need that had nothing to do with tenderness. He thrust two fingers inside her, deep and rough, and her head slammed back against the brick. A ragged cry was torn from her, lost in the rain.
“Is this what you chased me for?” he snarled, his fingers pistoning in and out, the sound obscenely wet. “You needed another story to tell? Another scene to paint for your fucking family?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her hips bucking against his hand. “No. I don’t know. Just fuck me. Now.”
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers as he sucked them clean. The vulgarity of the gesture made her cunt clench with empty need.
He fumbled with his belt, his movements hurried, brutal. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and ruddy and jutting angrily from his body. The cold rain pebbled his skin. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, pinning her against the wall. The rough brick scraped her back through the damp fabric.
He didn’t guide himself. He just surged upward, slamming into her in one ruthless, claiming stroke.
The breath left her in a punched-out sob. He was so deep, filling her to the point of pain, stretching her brutally. She was tight, unused to the unforgiving angle, to the lack of any gentleness. He felt bigger like this, more dangerous.
“You want it raw?” he gritted out, not moving, just holding himself buried inside her, his forehead pressed to the brick beside her head. His whole body trembled. “You want it filthy? This what you had in mind when you begged on my floor?”
“Don’t stop,” she choked out, her legs locking around his hips. “Please, Lucas, don’t you fucking stop.”
He began to move. It was nothing like the kitchen floor. This was punishment. Penance. Each drive of his hips was a violent reset, hammering her into the unyielding wall. The friction was exquisite and agonizing. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he ripped in and out of her soaked, clinging heat.
His grunts were animalistic, lost in the crook of her neck. “Such a tight little cunt,” he rasped, his breath scalding. “Gripping me like a goddamn vise. You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like a cheap whore in an alley.”
“Yes,” she moaned, the word a broken thing. She did. She loved the rawness, the loss of control, the sheer physical truth of it. This was no fantasy. This was her dress around her waist, her ass getting scraped on brick, her best friend’s broken-hearted crush using her body to exorcise his demons. It was real. It was awful. It was the most alive she’d ever felt.
One of his hands slipped between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. The added sensation tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, convulsing wave that clenched around his driving cock, milking him. She buried her scream in the wet fabric of his shoulder.
The feel of her pulsing around him undid him. With a final, shuddering roar that was more pain than pleasure, he plunged deep and held, his body jerking as he emptied himself inside her in hot, urgent spurts.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, fused together, heaving for breath as the rain cooled their feverish skin. The sound of the storm returned, the drip of water from an awning, a distant car swishing through a puddle.
Slowly, his arms, which had been vise-like around her, loosened. He let her slide down the wall until her feet, numb and dirty, touched the ground. He softened inside her, and the slow, illicit trickle of their mingled fluids down her inner thigh was a stark, cold reality.
He stepped back, pulling his jeans up with trembling hands, avoiding her eyes. The rage was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out shame that was somehow worse.
Ava leaned against the wall, her dress still bunched at her waist, feeling exposed and used and utterly, devastatingly connected to him.
“I do,” he said, his voice raw. He finally looked at her. Rain dripped from his hair, down his nose. “I do love you. That’s the worst part.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the curtain of rain, leaving her alone in the flickering neon glow, his confession and his semen slowly washing away in the summer downpour.