ALL OF MY PEACHES ARE RUINED || nate & cassie | euphoria abo

c h a p t e r t w e n t y t w o

chapter twenty-two: COMMON GROUND

HE FUCKED ME FOR three days straight. It's not that I lost how many times it happened – but keeping track indeed would've been impossible, with the way pleasure bled into more pleasure and became absolute pleasure, until the simple act of Nate pulling out of me to get food, water became foreign and upsetting to me. To Nate, too, considering he couldn't seem to let me out of his sight for more than a few seconds at a time.

Not that I cared to be.

My room was a mess. We were too lazy to move to the "heat room", as Nate softly called it. He tried moving me out, but I started crying, thinking he was going to leave me, even though he stated a hundred times he would never leave me, still; we remained in my room. The sheets were a mess, the bed a pile of broken wood. For a room that recently overcame two makeovers, it seemed in a very bad state. It didn't matter. I wasn't going to spend any more time in here, unless to use the bathroom and the closet. Hopefully, I will not be sleeping here. I'd rather spend the rest of my days in Nate's room, in his bed, surrounded by his smell.

When the messy combination of our fluids became too much, Nate haphazardly wiped it away from my inner thighs with a corner of the sheet. The bed was soaked halfway through the first day, but Nate's growl when I offered to get fresh beddings was not entirely human, and his response was to fuck me twice in a row without letting me come up for air.

I thought I finally got it. My room, Nate's entire house – it smelled so good, it was almost scary to think that a time existed when our scents were not completely enveloping it.

We talked. About non-important things. When I wanted to ask something more substantial, something that worried me, Nate immediately cut me off, saying that I mustn't be worried right now and that he would do anything in his power to keep me relaxed for the duration of my heat. When we weren't talking, we lay there, tied together, kissing infinitely or just staring and tracing each other's skin – freckles, they are freckles, why is Nate so obsessed with them? – and sometimes we talked again, small, disjointed conversations about funny and inconsequential things, like that time I had to retake my math test in high school because I was so sleep-deprived from waiting tables at night that I conked out in the middle of the test. Or that in year ten, Nate signed up for a half marathon but ended up running a whole one he followed the wrong race.

Several times, he told me in a wonderstruck tone how beautiful he found me, how warm and soft and wet and fuckable and perfect, and I wasn't so stupid to believe he actually meant everything he said, but it still made me feel so much happier and content.

He fed me by hand, though I ate very little. Slices of apple and peach, juice, water – the basics. And that's enough. More than enough. He took care of me so well.

"Don't you have to go to work?" I asked at the end of my heat.

"Fuck work," he said distractedly.

I laughed, "Yeah when you're in the mafia, you can fuck work." I didn't know what those words meant. Nate didn't either. We both laughed.