"If you're just having sex with me, I want you to stop it," she says, shoving me once her hands are free.
Her brown hair is matted against her face and neck. When I try to brush it away, she slaps at my hand.
Her wrists are red, with deep braided indentations in them, and on her tummy are drops of semen, scattered like a broken strand of pearls.
She turns away from me, and faces the wall. The sweat of our bodies has soaked through the sheets to the futon, forming an unnavigable body of perspiration between us.
It's not that I'm "just having sex" with her, but then it's not quite love that I am making, either.
So Peador, what are you doing still screwing her? I don't know. I really don't know. And I don't know what to say to calm her anger or reassure her. All I can do is try to make a gesture of affection, to kiss her tenderly on her back and pull her closer to me.
"But," she says, softening, "if you want something more . . . "
I kiss her on the lips, then maneuver above her, gently spreading her legs and easing inside her for the third time this morning . . .
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Woman's Nails is now available on Amazon's Kindle.