his hands are in my hair, yanking my chin up to click our teeth and scratch our lips. I'm whining, but not in the way people do with words. it's the way dogs do, the back of their throats turning into high-pitched wind tunnels. ivan's swollen mouth probes mine, and I can feel what he's trying to say to me: just shut up, shut up, da?
I can't stop it though, this hysteria that is jumbling my nerves. usually we fuck in almost silence, the only noises breaking it being our hitched patterns of breathing and the noises bodies make when they're trying to consume each other. and it works, for us, because there's so much hate in the way he pulls his knee up close between my legs every time, grinding his patella against my erection until I'm screaming inside, hot red blood rising to my cheeks. then sometimes I feel the scream pop in the back of his throat as I pull my fingernails down his snow-white snow-cold skin.
it's a game, really. one time, I whispered a tiny profanity, so tiny that it shouldn't have been picked up. but there ivan was, smiling dementedly, pulling his pants back on. game over.
so here I am, tears running down my cheek. he stops, pauses, and laps up the tears. I squeeze my eyes shut as his tongue passes over my eyelids, leaving a trail of smoldering saliva. my hands are on his shoulders and he's moving inside of me, somewhere deep where neither fingers nor soul's could claw at.
he bites the bottom of my face harshly, pulling at the skin that's kept elastic with youth.
more, he wants tears that show my weakness.
at the end, he's pulling out too fast and my body's dam breaks. I come and I'm crying.
I seek out his eyes and for a moment there's interest in them. has he hurt me so badly that I've turned into a sobbing mess? we stare at each other. he's hardly visible through a cloud of salt water.
I do see it when his gaze hardens with disgust. Ivan winds the scarf around him tighter, pushes the buttons through his jacket with swift gloved hands (did the gloves even come off this time?), and then pauses at the door.
this isn't barrack obama shaking hands with dmitry medvedev or korean nuclear threats or all the shit we throw in each others faces and I'm done with it, okay?
"you never left my mind," I whisper.
Ivan grins, mouths 'fuck you, alshka', and leaves me to realize that he's won.
fuck me.