When he leans in, I inhale sharply, my eyes closing in anticipation. I release a modest gasp when our lips make contact and Dean does the same. I told him not to pretend this is something it’s not, but maybe we have to pretend. Maybe it’s the only way to get through his. I feel his tongue poke through, seeking entry, and I oblige. My body bows forward to meet him further, and I open my mouth wider, encouraging him. “Close your eyes and zone out,” I breathe against his warmth, repeating his own request to me. “Focus on kissing me.”

My words seem to stimulate him in some way, and Dean raises his right hand to cup my face as the other continues its lazy designs against my wrist. We each have a crux. A survival tactic. His touch, my kiss. A kiss that deepens and deepens, taking us over, disguising this moment for what it really is. My tongue is his veil—his black cloak.

But it’s also his fuel. Before I know it, his hand has trailed down my cheek, gliding along my waist, my hip, my thigh, until he’s gently parting my legs. I feel the tip of him settle at my entrance and everything becomes too real. I make a sound I can’t even describe—a mewl, maybe. Ripped straight from the torrent of disbelief spiraling through my core.

“I’m so sorry.” He pulls back from my mouth, his head falling against my shoulder as he pushes inside me. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Around, around, and around.

Left, then right. Slow and careful and kind.

Up and down.

He’s tracing my vein.

Like art.

I can pretend this is something beautiful.

Dean is kissing me again, his cock filling me, pulsing in and out with hurried thrusts. He feels big and thick, unlike vile Earl who was pumping into me only yesterday.

Around, around, and around.

Our tongues are battling, desperate to erase everything that’s happening—everything that’s happened. Just everything. Dean’s right hand is holding up my leg and perching it over his hip. His fingers are digging into the fleshy side of my thigh, squeezing lightly as he moves in and out of me. In and out. In and out.

Around, around, and around.

I can hear the putrid monster beside us breathing heavily, groaning in pleasure at the display. At the fucking entertainment we’re providing.

Around, around, and around.

I need to focus. I need to block out Earl and this basement and the smell of imminent death in the air.

Dean.

There is only Dean.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s inside me, spearing me deep, forcing tiny whimpers from the back of my throat. He’s here. He’s alive. We’re both alive.

We’re in this together.

He’s still kissing me, his tongue getting clumsier as his thrusts quicken and his body tenses. He’s going to come.

Around, around, and around.

I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see his face in this moment—I don’t want to witness his pleasure. And it’s not because I’m angry or blameful. I’m envious. I’m envious he’s able to find a pocket of happiness, of joy, of authentic bliss, in the midst of our shared nightmare. We’re in this together, yes, but for a moment—for a few blinding, potent seconds—we will be worlds apart.