  He stood on the path outside and I hung onto the edge of the door, peering round. Coy. He was going to leave, he said, head home. I said he could stay if he wanted. We could fuck. He said, violently?
Maybe. Eyes downcast and flicked back up. Probably a flickering smile. Yeah, that's right. He slid back past me as I stepped back, swinging the door wider. Straight into my bedroom, just off the hall.
We circled for a while, skirting the issue, looking at books and photos and the contents of my dressing table. Smoking an illicit indoors cigarette, high window open to negate the smell, ash tipped direct into the bin with the kitsch smiling swimsuited 50s lady. He lit candles with his lighter and turned off the main light, so everything was shadows. Our pupils were giant as we slouched on the bed, lounging on cushions, not touching. And there was a pause in our rambling conversation and he leant over and pushed me back, kissing me. Tongues and lips soft and deliberate, probing.
Clashing teeth once provoking smirks. He pulled my top over my head and unhooked my bra as I lay with my back to him. Fumbling with jeans and dragging them down over my arse, trapping one of my feet inelegantly. I could feel the cloth of his shirt aginst my back. His hand tangled in my hair and he pulled my head back, hard, so I gasped and tears sprung to my eyes as he kissed my neck and my throat and my mouth. On my back on my bed, choked, flung around like a doll.
I got tufts of his hair between my fingers and pulled his face to mine. We shook eachother, rolling on the white sheets, on all fours dragged back so my tits pushed out as he crushed me against him, on top grinding down on his cock sheathed in denim. My nose started bleeding and I wiped blood from his face. He asked if I had blood in my mouth and I laughed. I stripped off his shirt and his jeans. When we fucked he traced my body with his nails, clawing, light punches as I gasped and gritted my teeth.
He held me to him as he came and we rocked for a while, breathing heavily. In the morning, after he'd left, I picked the strands of my hair from the bedlinen and craned my neck to study the stinging scratch running up my spine, cut in half by my bra strap. I looked at the marks on my thighs. It was as much fighting as fucking. And I liked it. 
