One More Time He had the habit of eating flowers. Not in mouthfuls, an entire rosebud in one bite. I

One More Time He had the habit of eating flowers. Not in mouthfuls, an entire rosebud in one bite. Instead it was like one would eat pistachios, peeling away each petal before popping it into his mouth. He’d sprinkle them on salads, a touch of perfume amid the balsamic and greenery.  She’d asked him about it the first time he’d cooked for her, a suspicious eye running over her colourful plate. He’d just shrugged, then, avoiding the question with a smile and offering her a choice of red or white. She’d eaten around the hyacinths.  The first time they’d had sex the first thing he’d done was slap her in the face, hard. She wasn’t ready for it, and for a day or two after she’d been half convinced it’d given her whiplash. The strength had come from how starkly it had contrasted against the tender kiss he’d just given her, his hands holding her without urgency, just… comfortable. Then there it had been, that mighty palm hard against her cheek, and nothing but a sore jaw and a rosy cheek, inflamed and angry, where heated arousal had so recently been.  She’d complained, naturally. After a minute of putting her mind back together from the shattered pieces he’d left it in. Who was he to do such a thing, how could he have such audacity, all the usual things. And to his credit, he had listened to each concern, before just reaching up and running those rough fingertips over her cheek. She’d left confused, and a little angry. They’d still fucked though, she’d wanted to do at least that. She didn’t have it in her to go back after things had reached the bedroom, even if her cheek did still sting. Besides, it had a pleasant sort of throb to it, and even the way he’d brought that hand down on her bum had only driven her harder against him. The memory of it had its own sort of thrill.  The second time he’d hit her, fist closed. Just below her ribs, coming in from the side. Not a heavy blow, by any means, but hard enough to smart, to knock the wind out of her. She’d thrown up her hands, blinked a few times, and yelled at him.  “Stop! Red! Stop!” His frown belied his surprise as she hurled out the words like warning shots.  He didn’t say anything, do anything, for a minute. She got her breath back, and stood up, looking down at him on the bed. He looked deflated, suddenly vulnerable. Holding her side, her other hand reached out and slipped over his jaw, stubble shuffling against her fingers.  “Why do you keep hitting me?” She asked, feeling overwhelmingly uncomfortable. This wasn’t why she was here, this wasn’t what she wanted. She was looking for answers, and now she was asking questions.  The first thing he did was shrug. That made her angry, a hot flash of indignation and frustration. He saw it, and sat a little straighter. Took a breath, composed thoughts.  “Because you’re so beautiful.” When he didn’t look like he would elaborate further her eyes flashed and he just smiled, holding up a hand. “Ok, because you’re beautiful and the only way I can stand it is to hurt you…” He trailed off for a moment, his eyes falling to the floor, before he looked up again. “You’re so beautiful I can’t stand it, and when I hit you you look so fragile that it’s almost bearable. Like your composure slips and I can see the actual you, for a moment.” Her thumb was running a small semi-circle against his cheek, and she slipped down onto his lap, one leg either side of his waist. She kissed him, then, softly, without rushing, and without opening her mouth. Just her lips against his, held there. Then she broke it, pulling back far enough that she could see him.  “Silly, all you had to do was ask.” Surprise made him smile, and she slinked off his lap to stand in front of him. She held out one hand, beckoned him.  “Come on baby. Hit me again."  -- source link
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