Autobiography

(Sorry about the loose formatting - nothing I do seems to fix it. TAS x)

*

He came, finally, with a low groan, his fist gripping too tightly in her hair. Margaux pulled away as soon as she could, swallowing again and again to get the bitterness from her mouth.

“Isn’t that better?”

Margaux said nothing. She slowly got to her feet and started smoothing the front of her skirt. Already regret was burning a hole in the pit of her stomach.

“Do me a favour, darling. Go and get me something to clean up with.”

Margaux nodded mutely and walked out into the hallway, wiping one corner of her mouth with a thumb.

When she returned, flannel in hand, he looked up at her from the sofa with the deep serenity of orgasm. Margaux noted with dismay that sex was evidently the best way to keep him agreeable.

“You’re angry with me.”

“No.”

“Yes you are. (Thank you, darling.)” He took the flannel and held himself upright as he cleaned up.

“What difference does it make?”

“…Well, Margaux, I don’t want you to be angry with me.” He finished and got to his feet, dropping the crumpled cloth on the sofa. When he leaned down, nuzzling at her throat, she moved away. “Do you want to hit me? Will that make you feel better?”

“I’m not interested in violence.”

“Bollocks. I bet you’ve daydreamed about doing horrific things to me.” His voice was a low, playful growl.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, darling.” He stepped back and held out his arms with open palms. A circle of her teeth marks showed crimson on his left forearm. “Hit me. It’s okay.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she rounded on him, thrusting her fist upward into his cheekbone. The blow caught him unprepared, and he reeled back a little, reflexively moving one hand up towards his face, too late.

“Christ, Margaux. I was expecting a slap.” He prodded gingerly at the reddening spot on his cheek. Margaux uncurled her fingers and flexed them; it hurt a little, but she had connected with her middle knuckle instead of her fingers — she hadn’t done herself any damage worth noting.

“Actually, I do feel better.”

“…Good.” A smile of disbelief twitched at one corner of his mouth.

*

Bill tilted his head, angling his cheek toward the mirror. It hadn’t been much of a punch, but it had been more than he thought she was capable of. There had been fury in her eyes, a rekindling of the fire he was worried had started to die. No, she was still a fighter. 

He stared at his reflection. 

It had excited him, he realised. It had excited him to relinquish his power to her, even if it was only for the briefest moment. It had excited him to feel an electric bloom of pain by her hand. If he weren’t spent already, he would have been on her in a second.

This realisation contradicted what he thought he knew about himself, and he caught his reflection frowning.

Bill’s mind wandered as he finished washing his hands.