Killing Mila (wildfire: rewritten)

4. The End

It hurts so much more than I expect it to.

The pressure is unbearable. I feel impaled, like my insides are splitting in two. And hot on its heels is a tearing, stinging sensation of my flesh giving way to his. A sharp cry escapes my lips, tears springing in my eyes. My whole body tenses and tightens, desperately fighting to keep him from driving deeper. To force him back out. But I might as well be pushing against a brick wall for all the progress I make.

He stills abruptly, his grip on my knee tightening reflexively. When his eyes find mine, there's a flash of surprise. Shock.

With my palms flat against his stomach, I try to push him back. Away. Out. How the hell does anyone enjoy this? I shove harder, pounding my fist against his abdomen in a futile attempt to force him out of me, but he just reaches down and catches both my wrists in one by hand and drags them up over my head.

"P-please," I whimper. "It hurts..."

"Hold still, little girl." His voice is low. Gruff. "Breathe." And despite the alarm bells screaming in my head, I find myself obeying. My only movement is the shuddering rise of my chest as I suck in sharp breath after sharp breath.

Slowly, he withdraws from me, pulling almost all of the way out. He watches me the entire time, the surprise in his eyes darkening into something far more dangerous. Possessive. It sends a ripple of heat through me, in spite of the pain.

"You feel so good," he grits out as he holds my gaze. There's no hint of remorse or concern in his words – just the heady weight of satisfaction. "So fucking perfect."

It should make me angry, the fact that he still hasn't stopped. That even though it feels like my body is split in two, he still slowly spreads me open, pushing inexorably forward until his hips are flush against mine and my body has no choice but to stretch to accommodate him. It's still so painful. I feel so full. Shockwaves of pain dart through me, almost as strong as the first time.

But I'm not angry. That is the most confusing part of all: that I want this.

I want him.

"You with me?" He holds my hip with a firm grip as he slides back, pinning me in place. I nod jerkily, not trusting my voice. His face is so close to mine, I can taste his breath on my lips. Feel each unsteady exhalation as he strives to maintain control. When a tear escapes the corner of my eyelid, he leans forward to catch it with the tip of his tongue.

This is so far beyond how I ever imagined losing my virginity. I had aeons of time to think about it on a myriad of hospital wards, daydreaming about a future I thought I'd never have. One where I went to prom and drank spiked punch, and hooked up with my date in the backseat of his car. Or maybe with my fictional high school boyfriend, who snuck me into his bedroom after graduation while his parents were at work.

This isn't romantic, or sweet. I don't even know his name.

My chest clenches, a moment before he begins to thrust back inside me. My breath catches as the pain slowly recedes. The stretch is still uncomfortable, but the sharp, stinging sensation lessens, until I can taste the remnants of the heavy, aching heat he has been building inside me since we first touched.

Sensing the change, he leans back slightly, lifting my hips until he's piercing me at a slightly different angle. This time, when he drives back inside me, it's faster. A little harder. A shock of electric heat bolts through me, making me gasp loudly.

"Good girl," he rasps as he slides his hand lower, gripping my ass. Hauling me down another step. There is a painful, needy part of me deep down that swells at the praise, when rationally, I know it shouldn't. I'm pinned and trapped beneath him, incapable of stopping him from surging into me, and the power he holds over me in this moment is terrifying. But when he watches me like this, eyes dark with approval and desire, I know I will let him do whatever he wants to do to me. Whatever he needs to do.