Painkiller

Aaaah, this is actually going quite well. I’ve just been shuffling through the songs and if something comes to mind, writing it. I never said it wouldn’t all be angsty!

This one is from Duncan: Three Days Grace – Painkiller

Spashley. Decidedly X-rated. Muchos gracias to Dev, as always, for her wondrous beta skills that make my crapola readable.

* * * * *

It’s hot and wet and so good and I never, ever want it to stop. It always does. She only comes when there’s so much ache in her soul that nothing will soothe her but me.

I want to be the one who soothes her always. I want to be the one who holds her every night, runs my fingers through her hair, and dries her tears when they fall. I want to be the one who she laughs, dances and sings with. I want to be her one.

I know that will never happen. I have never been that to her. I have only ever been the one she sneaks to when she needs it.

She’s married. She’s married to a man I can’t stand, a complete loser, and she says she loves him. She says she loves him but I’m who she comes to when she needs to feel free. I’m who she comes to when she needs the numbness that only incredibly intense sex will give.

I’m her painkiller.

I’m in the studio alone trying out some new chord combinations when the intercom buzzes. As soon as Doug from Security says that I have a visitor, I know. I feel her in my every nerve, all suddenly singing and vibrating like a piano struck with a hammer.

I know from the look in her eyes as she quietly comes through the door. She always sidles through without fully opening it. I put down my guitar but don’t stand up. She drops her bag as she closes the door, but she doesn’t move from the other side of the room.

It’s always like this when it’s like this. Any other time—when I know she’s coming, when it’s not after dark, and when I know what’s happening—she’s just my best friend. I’m just her best friend. But when it’s like this, when I know why she’s here, we wait. Like caged animals.

One of us always makes the first move but tonight I don’t know who it is. I just know that suddenly we’re in front of each other and the pain in her eyes makes my insides melt.

I’m so tired of my Spencer being hurt. I’m so tired of this game we play. I’m so tired of being this person. But it won’t stop me.

I lift a hand to her cheek, gently cupping it.

“Spence—”

I am cut off by her lips. Talking is a direct violation of the unspoken rules of THIS—this thing that exists outside our friendship, outside our boundaries and outside of time.

Her mouth is insistent and when she opens her lips, I respond. My hands grip her hips, our tongues brushing against each other and it’s hot, and it’s wet, and I can’t think when she’s in my arms like this. I slide around, pulling her body into mine and I’m rewarded with a groan.

Her hands are in my hair, pulling it out of its messy ponytail and feathering it around my shoulders. Then her fingers scratch along my scalp as her tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, her teeth following with the barest of scrapes.

It’s my turn to moan.

Zero to a hundred in half a second, I swear.

I want her so badly, my body throbs and aches. I reach down, cup her perfect ass through her jeans, and squeeze. In response, she bites my lip, no longer gentle. She doesn’t want gentle; she doesn’t need gentle. She needs me to fill her up in every way.

I urge with my hands, lifting until she gets the idea. She’s bigger than me but I don’t give a damn. Her legs wrap around my hips and I stagger. We hit the couch, her ass first and I’m on top of her, pushing her into the cushions. It’s only moments before we’re arranged, lips to lips, chest to chest, and my thigh pushing into the juncture of her legs, pressing denim into hot, hot flesh.

“Please.” Her breathy whisper is potent across my face. Her eyes are glazed, but I can still see the small pinpoints of pain behind the gaze. It’s dulled, but not gone.

I have a job to do. I slide her shirt up, my fingers trailing over her ribs as my mouth moves in hot, wet, open kisses along her jaw. I find her earlobe at the same moment my hand covers her breast. I let my teeth pinch her sensitive skin as my thumb and forefinger squeeze down on a erect nipple. She arches into me, a whimper, a shiver of her body.

I’m not gentle. It only takes a few seconds to pull her shirt over her head and for my teeth to replace my hands. I ravage her breast through the white cotton of her simple bra. I use teeth, suction, my hand mimicking my motions on the other side. All the while, I have my hip pushing up into her. And now she’s writing under me.

I bet he never turns her on this fast.

I have to push the thought out of my head, so I push her bra up. It doesn’t need to be taken off, because I’m rough but she’s exposed and my mouth is hard on her. As my hand finally slips down to unbutton her jeans, I wonder if it’s been too much because her nipples are cherry red and more swollen than I’ve ever seen them. I blow across them gently, and her hips cant up into mine.

Maybe she likes it rougher than I’ve previously thought. Maybe she wants me to hold her down, her wrists pinned together, while I take her to the very edge of pain and pleasure. But that kind of sex requires a lot of trust and ownership. That kind of sex would require her to be mine. It would make her mine.

She’s not mine.

Instead, I push her jeans down her legs, taking her underwear with it. I’m fully clothed and Spencer Carlin is now naked on my couch, in my studio. She’s flushed and her full breasts are standing to attention because of me. She’s wet because of me.

She needs this and I need this and it’s hell.

I kneel up between her legs, grabbing her bent knees and unceremoniously pushing them apart. There is no resistance, just the plaintive wail, “Ashley, please.”

Her eyes are closed, but she knows it’s me. She knows I’m the one doing this to her. For her.

I am not gentle. And this is not slow. There is no preamble before I plunge two fingers as deeply as they will go.

She cries out, but it isn’t pain. She’s incredibly wet and incredibly ready and this is exactly what she wants. I lean over, resting on one elbow so that my hand can pump into her. My thumb brushes her clitoris with every thrust, and the tight bud is standing to attention. She’s close, but I’m careful not to let her fall too fast.

This doesn’t happen very often, so I’m going to take advantage of it.

She’s wet and tight and hot around my fingers. I lean down so my mouth is level with her ear and bite the shell, probably a bit too hard. She cries out and jerks, surprised. All that does is thrust my fingers deeper inside her unexpectedly, and we both moan.

“God. Please. Please.” She’s mumbling and I love it when she begs.

“Please what, Spence?”

“Fuck. Please.”

“I am fucking you.” I get more turned on by talking dirty to her like this than anything else I know. “Do you want more? Do you want me to fuck your pussy harder?”

It’s almost depraved, but it works for both of us, and it works for this situation. I need to blind her with the sex, because that’s what she needs. I need her to be nowhere but on the end of my fingers.

She’s shaking, swearing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” under her breath.

I slide out of her and her eyes open, desperate. For a moment, she panics that I’m stopping but she feels it, me pressing back inside her, three fingers. Now I know I’ve taken her to somewhere that hurts just a little, but she’s so wet. And when I’m deep inside, my thumb taps on her clitoris and she moans, arching into me.

I can’t move as fast like this, and it hurts my fingers, but, God, fucking her like this is the most erotic thing ever.

“Do you like that, Spence? You like it when I’m this deep inside you? Can you feel me, baby? Feel all of me?”

A wordless cry falls out of her lips and I know she’s close. I know I could just fuck her now and she’d come, but the words won’t stop.

“You know what I’d like?” I punctuate my sentence with a particularly hard thrust. Her knee is bent between my legs, and I might just get off through my jeans. “I’d like to really fuck you. I’d like to strap on and make you scream, Spencer.”

Her mouth is open, her back is arched, pushing her body into mine, and her eyes are closed. She’s panting shallowly, and everything in me aches. My forearm hurts, my fingers hurt, my throat hurts and when she tightens, taut like a bowstring, it’s everything.

It’s some of the roughest, hottest sex we’ve ever had. I figure it’s what she wanted, a complete mind blank of orgasm.

I only slip out of her, grazing her sensitive flesh, when she slumps to the couch. I stay over her, up on my elbows with my breath in her air. If I rock on her thigh, I might come. I don’t usually get off that way, but, God, I’m so wet.

But Spencer has never left me hanging, and I don’t want to get myself off. I want her to get me off.

It only takes a few minutes, before I feel her fingers on the belt loops of my jeans. She tugs and I kneel up.

If she’s self conscious about being naked, it doesn’t show, because a minute later I’m sitting back on the couch, my jeans and underwear discarded, and she’s spreading my legs. There’s something decadent and dirty about her kneeling between my legs, completely naked, while I still have a shirt on.

She bites her lip, so fucking sexy, and tugs on my knees until I’m slumped down and my hips are on the edge of the couch. Her nails scratch down my abs and I would have to be inhuman not to lift my hips at the sensation.

My knees are pushed apart, spread for her, and she dips her head down. She starts slow, her nails digging in to the tops of my thighs. Her tongue traces me, up and down, before I settle lower and open myself up a bit more. Then she’s tasting me, and tonguing my clit. I’m so close, but she’s good. I look down at her blonde head, bobbing away, and gently put my hand on it. She’s servicing me. Fuck, that’s what it looks like from here.

Every time I get remotely close to orgasm, she slides her tongue down and fucks me with it. It’s incredible, but it won’t get me off.

“Spence,” I rasp out. I want to come.

She doesn’t respond with words, but her hands push my knees so far apart that the tendons in my groin hurt with strain. Completely open to her, she pushes her hands under my ass and lifts me to her face.

It takes a mere three strokes of her tongue before I’m coming all over her face.

I expect her to stop when my orgasm finally stops shaking through my body but instead I’m surprised as two long fingers thrust straight into me.

“Oh, fuck.”

She thrusts mercilessly as she tongues me over and over. She’s not being gentle now.

I don’t know what she’s playing at because I don’t come twice. I never come twice. My hands are in her hair and I swear I put them there to pull her away because it’s too much. I can’t explain how I end up riding her face instead. I don’t even know if she can breathe because I have her mouth seared to me and I’m thrusting my hips into her face.

I don’t come twice. Ever.

Except tonight.

Her fingers curl and I scream.

When she’s done, the only reason I know I haven’t passed out is because I see her stand up and wipe her face with the back of her arm. The world is hazy until she reappears in front of me, fully dressed and holding out my jeans.

“I’d put these on before anyone else comes in.”

My head is still fuzzy as I stand and pull them up, doing that little jump thing you do when you try and get tight jeans up over your hips.

I’ll be fuzzy for days.

This is what it is. We won’t talk now. She’s already leaving.

On days that aren’t like this—on most days, because these days are pretty rare—I’m just Ashley Davies, her best friend. I was her best friend in high school and throughout her college days. I was Maid of Honour at her wedding. I threw up twice at her wedding.

On days like this, she leaves. She leaves satisfied, and I’m left more empty than I can possibly describe.

I’m just her painkiller.

And it’s killing me.