Free Undone by Kristina Lloyd

shimmering, painful beauty.
    Maybe Misha was out there somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t meat that had ended too soon. Instead, something of him was scattered across the cosmos in a manner we couldn’t even begin to imagine. His strewn consciousness could be glittering among the stars, inexplicable fragments, transcendentally bright and far beyond knowledge.
    I sniffed and nodded, easing back as Sol released his grip. I dusted the tear splashes on his T-shirt. ‘Sorry,’ I croaked.
    ‘No need.’ He smoothed my hair from my face and gazed down. Under his jutting brow, his once-twinkly eyes were now smudged with concern. The split on his lip sagged, a taut polished bead of bruises and blood. The injury seemed so decadent, a flagrant display of sensuality and excess bordering on the sordid. I wanted to kiss him there but doing so was forbidden. I might hurt him or open up the wound. And foolish to kiss where blood could spill into my mouth.
    That his lips were off-limits made me desire to touch him there all the more. I raised my face higher, seeking and offering, my breath quivering with suppressed sobs. But I bottled out. Instead, I grated my lips over the rough, harsh stubble of his jaw, trying to inhale him. That was safer. I tasted my tears on my lips and I brushed harder, nibbling, kissing, smearing my saltiness against him, murmuring half-words of sadness. I couldn’t stop. The scouring on my lips was addictive.
    I liked to think I was shredding tender skin on the burn of his bristles; that he was ripping me at the molecular level so the kissing, murmuring wreckage of me would lodge with him unseen.
    I edged closer to his lips. Wasn’t it even more foolish not to kiss him there? A man was stone-cold dead. In the scheme of things, what did minor transgressions matter? Who cared about taking a chance on civility and health? So what if I tried and he was repulsed? Because wasn’t this, right now, what mattered most; this seizing of messy moments undaunted by a wagging finger?
    I gazed up at him, and I wanted to vanish into his eyes. The hand cupping my head coiled my hair into a gentle fist and, oh, sweet, dirty joy, his cock nudged against my hip. A thick, slow beat throbbed between my thighs, three distinct pulses that wetted and widened me. I opened my mouth as if I were about to eat thin air. With great care, I reached up to take his injury in a soft, moist hold. As tenderly as I could, I ran my tongue tip over the taut, cracked plumpness.
    A noise snagged in his throat.
    I pulled back, concerned. ‘Does it hurt?’
    ‘Everywhere.’ His voice was a throaty whisper. ‘But I can’t feel it.’
    His hand tightened in my hair and I whimpered. Mild pain prickled across my scalp. I felt so protected and safe, that hint of force affecting me more profoundly than any affection could. He understood me; understood that I didn’t find comfort in the usual places. Slowly, he tilted my head back, his grip intensifying to prevent me moving my lips towards his.
    ‘What is it you want, eh, Lana?’ His voice was a low, sexy drawl. Evidently, he didn’t find comfort in the usual places either. My arousal pulsed. I ached for his wound, his vulnerability. I tried to edge close again but his clasp locked me in place, pain nipping when I tried defying him.
    ‘To forget,’ I breathed. ‘Just for a while. I want to forget.’
    He nuzzled against my cheek. ‘I can make you forget,’ he whispered.
    His voice carried a faint warning note and, oh God, that was it. Game over. I was demolished. I was a rag doll in his arms. A flood rushed to my groin. In my mind, those five little words whirled, dizzying me with their intoxicating promise.
I can make you forget
.
    I eased forwards.
    ‘I can make you forget who you even are,’ he murmured.
    My knees were boneless. I could barely stand upright.
    We were in a twisted fairy tale, and his bust lip was the forbidden fruit waiting to punish us for our greed. But I didn’t care. Today