Page 41 of CurVy 13

I did it for you.

Her perfectly pitched moan elevates to a mezzo-soprano whimper, and I’ll remember the music she made when we first kissed for the rest of my life.

I deepen the kiss, feeding my hands back through her hair. She matches me, lip tug for lip tug, lick for lick. My heart tics to explode in my chest.

“Why?” She cries into our kiss, her voice vibrating against my lips. “Why did you have to do this? It could’ve been okay.” Tears fall into our mouths. “I could have accepted you. And Donnie. And forgiven you. For all of this but now…”

What? I pull from our kiss, her words twisting.

“But now what?”

If the look in her eyes could beat my body to a bloody pulp with reality, it just did. Pools of disappointment and pain stare back at me.

What do they mean?

What do they mean, baby?

Am I an idiot? Was I wrong?

Like with Martha?

Was that—

Was that not what she wanted?

Like in her books?

Touch her and die?

“Didn’t you want me to do that, baby?”

Startled by my words, her eyes become discs, wide and full of fear or contempt or—I don’t know, dammit, I can’t read her.

She lowers her voice. “You think I want you to kill someone for me? To kill my boyfriend?”

Boyfriend… No. No.

I’m stepping backwards, shaking my head, as the space around me suddenly feels too small, pressing in on me.

‘Dirty boys don’t play piano.’

“Shut up!” I bark at her words.

Martha’s version of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor suddenly rams into my ears, drowning my thoughts. No. My cock gets painfully hard, leaking and throbbing with a frantic and angry heartbeat.

No. No. No. Fuck.

‘Are you in love with me, dirty boy?’

“Don’t do that,” our girl whispers, reaching me inside my memories. Her terror-filled eyes lock on my hands.

I follow her gaze. I realise I’m in the kitchen holding a knife to my knuckles, pressing the blade in deep, feeling the slow trickle of blood as it leaves my pulsing veins.

My cock pounds with heat and hate; my zipper stretches as it tests it strength.

I’m staring at the blade, pretty and metallic, the crimson making a smooth line that shines and sparkles, when she touches my hand—the one holding the knife.

I don’t know when she stepped into the kitchen, but she’s coaxing it from me.