Page 7

SIX

IN CONTROL

WHAT IT IS TO BURN: FINCH

CALISTA

T he rhythmic swish of the wipers puts me in a trance, and the low hum of the car stereo vibrates through my seat as Dom and I drive home, our hands clasped tightly. Rain continues its gentle drizzle, drowning the city with its drops, completely unapologetic. Each stolen glance reveals the same shadowy expression on Dom's face—his usually bright eyes dull with a profound sadness that consumes his beautiful features. The unspoken weight of Ash hangs heavy between us, an elephant in the small space of the car.

I try not to think about it—about the overdose, about his death, his return, his lingering coma, the agonizing uncertainty of his awakening. But the thought, raw and brutal, relentlessly claws its way back. It's fucking unbearable.

Lost in thought, I barely register the car pulling into the parking garage down the street from our apartment. Dom's gentle tug on my hand brings me back to the present, unfortunately. I offer a strained smile, mirroring the one he forces in return.

"Stop fucking thinking about it," he demands, his voice edged with a coldness that resembles the darkness in his eyes.

"I can't," I whisper, fighting back tears.

He reaches between his seat and the door and slides his seat back, patting his thigh. With a gentle tug on my hand, he draws me closer, refusing to accept my silence as an answer.

"Let me help you forget... for a little while," he murmurs, a genuine grin finally breaking through as he impatiently pulls me onto his lap, settling me comfortably against him.

His arms wrap around me, a comforting weight against the madness within. The scent of his cologne, a familiar blend of sandalwood and something subtly spicy, fills my nostrils, a grounding anchor in the storm. His lips find mine, a slow, tender kiss that melts away some of the icy edges of grief. It's not a passionate kiss, not yet, but it's gentle—a silent promise of solace. He holds me close, his heart beating a steady rhythm against my chest, a soothing beat to the frantic drum of my own.

The rain outside continues its relentless patter, and for a moment, the weight of Ash lifts, replaced by the warmth of Dom's embrace. His hand strokes my hair, his touch featherlight, and I lean into him, allowing myself to be held, to be comforted.

The darkness in his eyes remains—a darkness I know I can't erase—but for now, it's overshadowed by the soft light of his affection. It's fragile peace, but it's enough. Enough to let the tears fall, to let the sobs wrack my body, knowing that he's here, holding me, sharing the burden.

"Stop fucking crying, Cali," he begs, gritting his teeth while trying not to cry himself.

I know this isn't what he had in mind, but the tears keep coming, and I have no idea how to stop them. When Dom realizes that I'm temporarily frozen in grief, he takes matters into his own hands. Grabbing his pocket knife, he opens it and makes two slices on the sides of my leggings, ripping them down instead of me having to pull some gymnastics shit to take them off.

"Dom!" I shriek, a sudden chill wracking my body from the cold air sweeping in through the open window.

He ignores my protest; his movements efficient and unusually rough despite the carelessness in his actions. He pulls my leggings down further and slides his pants below his ass, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary on my skin, a silent apology in the way he handles me.

The cold air bites at my legs as he pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair, his body a shield against the chill from the window. Instinctively, I rock against him, soaking his cock with my arousal. Gripping his shoulders, I sit up as straight as I can for being in a car, looking into his dark eyes.

"Is this what you fucking want?" I bite, hearing the anger in my tone. "You want me to fuck you so we can forget about Ash for a little bit?"

Reaching underneath me, I grab his dick and guide it to my pussy, slowly sliding down on it as he reclines his seat, refusing to answer. I still fuck him, but I'm pissed, and I know he can tell. I snatch his knife off the center console and press it against his throat, a deadly smirk dancing across my quivering lips. And then I make a small cut, feeling the tension in my body leave the moment I see the first spec of blood trickle from the slice. He grabs my waist and slams me down viciously on his cock, holding me in place as he thrusts upward, lifting his ass off the seat.

"You think you can just fucking cut me and get away with it?" He growls, snatching my throat and squeezing until I see stars in my vision.

"You think you can just cut my fucking clothes off and tell me to fuck you and get away with it?" I echo his statement with a twist of my own, still winding my body and rotating my hips, because fuck, it feels too damn good to stop.

"You're riding my dick, aren't you?" he asks, his grunts filling the small, confined space. "I think I did get away with it, Cali. I'm getting what I fucking wanted."

Anger ignites inside me, my blood feeling like lava flowing through my veins as he flashes me a devious grin. He chokes me even harder, pushing up my shirt, and wrapping his lips around my nipple, roughly biting it as some form of punishment or control—I'm not sure.

Feeling my crazy rising within me, I grip the blade tighter and use my other hand to force open his mouth and pull his head up to meet mine, inserting the knife between his parted lips. His eyes widen as I begin thrusting motions, returning the same twisted smirk he just gave me.

"Don't fucking play with me, Dominic," I whisper in his ear, still fucking his mouth with his own knife. "Don't you ever fucking forget who's in control here." I lick along his jaw, pushing the knife a little deeper, almost making him gag, but he fights it. "Just because I let my fucking guard down around you guys doesn't mean that you're the ones in control."

I feel his grip on me loosen, but his hand never leaves my throat. But I want it there—it's a sense of comfort for me. I stare into his eyes, slowly and methodically bouncing on his cock, feeling it pulse frantically inside me. He stares back, his body loosening up as minutes tick by and the knife is still in his mouth. I stop thrusting the blade, pressing it against his tongue while using my other hand and wrapping it around his throat, applying a decent amount of pressure.

"How does my pussy feel, Dom?" I coo in his ear, letting the words roll seductively off the tip of my tongue, making him shiver.

"Great," he mumbles, speaking slowly so the sharp blade doesn't cut his tongue.

"That's what I fucking thought." I wink, grinding against him, putting a slight arch in my back as I begin to soak him.

Feeling my cum showering his cock, he chokes me harder, pushing down on my hip with his free hand, seemingly forgetting about the knife in his mouth.

That or just not giving a fuck anymore.

"Come with me, Dom," I warn, my body on fire, melting into his. "Because when I'm done, I'm climbing off whether you've come or not."

His eyes roll back as my hand slowly slips, the knife falling from his mouth. Right away, he captures my lips and kisses me, shoving his tongue down my throat. As soon as our tongues touch, I feel him let go, his cum spilling inside me as I continue to ride him, feeling our sticky mixture sliding out of me and pooling on the leather seat.

He doesn't seem to give a fuck, and that's not like him.

The last few intoxicating seconds of our orgasms, passion swarms us, engulfing us like flames of a wildfire burning completely out of control. We cling to each other, our movements desperate and dangerous, our hands squeezing each other's throats even tighter. But neither one of us is willing to tap out first.

Out of breath, his legs painfully cramping, Dom let's go first, heaving a deep sigh that sounds heavy as it leaves his chest. I lay my head against his shoulder, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart, our bodies glistening with sweat beneath the unflattering garage lighting.

“I gave somewhere I need to be, Dom,” I whisper, hoping he doesn't interrogate me.

I can't tell him yet. I can't tell any of them—not yet.

He doesn't speak; he just holds me, his body a solid anchor in the chaos. The scent of his cologne, sharp and comforting, is a remedy in the suffocating darkness still completely surrounding us. I'm hit with a million emotions all at once, and the tears begin to trickle down my cheeks, Ash front and center in my mind even after getting my brains fucked out of me.

Slowly, the intensity of my grief begins to ebb. The rhythmic rise and fall of Dom's chest against mine, the steady pressure of his arms, the gentle strokes of his hand through my sweaty hair—these small acts of comfort weave a fragile tapestry of peace. The silence between us is not empty; it's filled with the unspoken understanding of shared pain, of a love that transcends words.

Eventually, my sobs subside, replaced by a quiet trembling. Dom pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine, a mixture of concern and tenderness in their depths. The darkness is still there, a shadow lurking at the edges of his gaze, but it's less intense now, softened by the shared vulnerability. He wipes away a stray tear with his thumb, his touch soft and soothing.

"Better?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion.

I nod, unable to speak; the words caught in my throat. He pulls me closer again, his embrace a silent promise of continued support. The rain outside continues its relentless rhythm, but inside the garage, a fragile warmth has begun to bloom, a fragile hope taking root in the fertile ground of grief. The darkness remains, but for now, it's held at bay by the unwavering strength of love.