18. Billie

18

Billie

“Cain!” I scream, jumping out of the chair. “Fuck! Do something!”

Cain gently lowers Lars’ limp body to the floor. “He’s fine. We’ve done this before. He’s just passed out.”

My fists slam into Cain’s chest. “What the fuck is wrong with the two of you? What is this shit?”

“It’s me giving the man I love what he needs,” Cain spits, anger lacing his words. “You gonna join me or judge me?”

I remain silent because I’m unsure what my response should be. A part of me longs to touch them. It’s something I’ve always wanted. Even when I thought I was hate-fucking them, I wanted more. But as I gaze at Lars on the ground, he looks so peaceful. Maybe Cain is right?

Cain rummages in the pocket of his discarded jeans, pulling out his cell. He walks to a small table by the sofa and balances the phone. “I record it. He knows this happens.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Yes. He gets out of hand, I put him down and do what I want,” Cain explains uncomfortably. He’s being honest about this shit show, but it’s evident he finds this conversation difficult.

“What do I need to do?”

“Get naked.”

“What? Is this some fucked up way to bang me again?”

“Tinkerbell, I don’t have to set shit up to bang you. You know that as well as I do. If it was about banging, all I’d have to do is ask and you’d be on your knees, mouth open, begging for a taste.”

“I can’t have sex with you right now.”

“Oh?” Cain’s eyes narrow. “Why is that?”

“I got my period last night.”

Cain raises his eyebrow, and a slow, seductive smirk forms on his full lips. “That sounds like a bonus if you ask me. Seems like you’ve forgotten my poison of choice, Billie. Strip.”

Cain’s words are a sick form of foreplay. It seems that penetration is on the table with Cain when I’m menstruating, along with everything else. His lust for blood is one of my favorite things about him. But I don’t care what anyone says; sex on your period is a whole different beast.

My sense of moral indignation urges me to protest, to tell Cain that I’ll do no such thing. But the little whorish voice I’ve bottled up for ten years is chanting in excitement like a cheerleader at a Superbowl game.

The slutty cheerleader wins, and the feminist woman is kicked to the curb.

I pull down my pants, realizing that on my tombstone they will write: Willamina Elizabeth Richmond, the girl controlled by her vagina, not her mind.

I gaze at Cain as he walks toward me with a sly, sexy smirk. He glides his fingers up my arm and down my torso to fist the hem of my shirt. He yanks it over my head and discards it on top of a broken whiskey bottle on the floor.

I close my eyes as his fingertips brush my bottom lip.

“Have you ever dreamed about lips? I’ve dreamed about these.”

I finally understand what flutters are because they’ve taken over every inch of my body. I’m a giant flutter party. My fingers twitch with anticipation, my lips tingle with need, my heart beats with longing, and my vagina throbs with desire.

My dignity is a forgotten memory as Cain kisses along my collarbone until his lips find mine. His roaming hands move down my body until they flirt with the elastic of my panties. Heat flares as his fingers dive in, parting my pussy lips and pressing against my clit.

He grips my underwear with his other hand. “You won’t be needing these,” he growls before tearing them from my body. His hands splay over my thighs. “Spread them.”

A perverse humiliation runs through me. The idea of sex while on my period is a barrier I’ve never been able to break. But I realize my belief is idiotic. Our periods are a means to foster life, but society paints a contrived narrative, labeling it as dirty. My eyes flutter shut as I focus on the blissful sensations and banish the societal shame.

Cain pulls out my tampon and dangles it in front of my face. “We won’t be needing this.”

He falls to his knees and latches his mouth to my center. “Fuck, I need this.”

I clasp the wall behind me, desperate for an anchor, so I don’t crumble to the floor under the passionate lashes of Cain’s tongue. “I’m sure you’ve had girls lining up for Blaze to eat them out.”

Cain bites my clit. “I’ve never done this to any other girl. I’ve never wanted to.”

I freeze at Cain’s confession. The man is a bona fide rockstar who enjoys eating out a girl on her period. That’s not a needle in a haystack, it’s a needle in a damn cornfield.

I allow my body to relax, but the moment I turn my head, I see Lars unconscious on the floor. “Are you gonna just leave him there, or do you have some grand plan?” I ask, looking down at Cain as he pulls his head from between my legs.

His lips and cheeks are covered in blood. “Don’t worry, Tinkerbell, we’ll take care of him.” He rises and takes my hand, walking us to Lars. “I guess I can take care of you both at the same time.”

Cain goes to the kitchen and grabs a pair of scissors. He cuts Lars’ shirt from hem to collar and tears it off him to expose his chest. My eyes roam over the various tattoos adorning his body. My and Cain’s dates of birth, Cain’s old beaten-up guitar, lasagna, the chorus of “Disarm,” the old building where we all went to Nar-Anon meetings. His body is a tribute to his life and everything and everyone that means something to him. The most poignant tattoos are the dates his mother and Trevor died.

“You should see his back,” Cain says before gently turning Lars over to reveal the enormous portrait. My face at eighteen, tears flowing from my eyes as I walked away from a dock. Our dock.

Cain wraps his arms around me and whispers, “We never forgot you, Billie. You’re a part of us.” He nips at my earlobe and bends me forward so my head is directly over Lars’ hard cock.