It's her fault. She's the one who ruins the system they have, takes it too far.
Because they do have a system, as horribly screwed up as it is. Claire invades his space, leans in far too close, curls her fingers in his hair and hisses venom in his ear. Topher lies still and lets her words wash over him, trying to focus on that and nothing else, keeping his hands flat on the mattress and watching her carefully for the moment he can shove her away without retaliation. It's predictable, almost routine, something to expect (something to dread).
Tonight she's already pushing it. She's speaking less than usual because her mouth is occupied with his neck – kissing, biting, pressing her tongue to the pounding of his pulse – and he can't even pretend to ignore her. Her hand is also too bold in its movements, slipping down the front of his jeans to stroke him lightly through the thin fabric there, just enough to be agonizing, to make his breath hitch almost rhythmically (from her satisfied smile, a pleasing sound to her ear).
He wants to push her away now instead of waiting until she starts to give up on her own, but he knows that always results in a shouting match, a rehash of old arguments and accusations. Another few unbearable seconds pass, and he decides to risk it anyway, digs the heels of his palms into the mattress to try and tentatively shift away.
It's a mistake. Claire makes an irritated noise, grazes her teeth across his throat, becomes even more forceful. She presses her knee between his legs, and her fingers tighten around him.
Topher throws his head back with a groan and squeezes his eyes shut, fighting a battle for control that he's rapidly losing. He manages, "Claire," desperately through gritted teeth, but she ignores him, keeps moving. He bucks his hips against her hand, and then he's coming with a strangled cry, biting his lip so it becomes a whimper instead.
Claire stills immediately, leaning back as the sticky heat spreads beneath her palm. Wide-eyed, she slowly pulls her hand away, rubs her fingertips together uncertainly. She looks up at Topher, at his face, red and ashamed, eyes still closed. She watches his chest heave, listens to his labored breathing, and she swallows because it feels like something hot has settled in the pit of her stomach, a sudden spike of arousal.
She's already straddling his right leg, so she grinds down against him, hard and fast, letting her mouth drop open at the sensation but keeping quiet. She feels Topher move beneath her, sees his hand fly up out of the corner of her eye and prepares to be pushed away again, but it never happens. So she stops paying attention to what he's doing, digs her nails into his thigh and just moves until she's panting and can't stay silent anymore.
She slumps forward, lets her head rest against his chest for a brief moment while she wills her heart to stop beating so fast. Then she pushes away, sits up, and looks down. Topher's eyes are still closed, deliberately trying to shut everything out, but he's bent his knee for her and his hand is at her hip, gripping so hard she's sure there will be bruises, and he never willingly touches her if not to pull away, and what are they going to do after this?
They've crossed the line, broken the rules to this game. She's ruined it. Claire reaches down to pry his fingers loose, and he lets go quickly like her skin suddenly burns to the touch. He's looking at her now, and there's still shame and guilt in his face but also confusion and the barest hint of curiosity. His eyes are dark, and she stares back, unmoving.
But her nails are still digging into his leg, harder now, the pressure making her whole body quiver lightly. It doesn't stop when she eases her hand away.
She curses herself and everyone and everything that made her this way, lunges forward and presses her mouth to his, and when he responds, hesitant first and then bolder, she thinks in all her lives she couldn't possibly have hated anyone the way she does him.