"I don't want you to feel sorry for me?—"
"Good, because I don't. I feel stupid." My voice breaks, and there it is—the thing underneath the anger. The wound. Raw and ugly and throbbing. "I feel stupid for thinking you were different. For going home that night and checking my phone like some pathetic—" I stop and press my lips together. Then I take a breath. "I'm done. I'm so done with this."
I head for the door, and he moves. He steps into my path enough that I'd have to go around him, and our eyes lock, and his are?—
Wrecked. He looks gutted and unable to hide it.
"Everything that night was real," he says, and his voice is a rough whisper. "I need you to know that. The name was a lie, but nothing else."
"That's not enough."
"I know."
We're standing too close. I don't remember closing the distance, but his chest is now inches from mine and I can see his pulse hammering in his throat. His breath is ragged and his eyes drop to my mouth for half a second and?—
He rushes forward and kisses me.
Or I kiss him.
I honestly don't know who moves first. It doesn't matter. One second we're standing in the wreckage of a conversation that went nowhere, and the next his mouth is on mine and it's not sweet, not tender, not anything like the goodnight kiss in the bar parking lot weeks ago.
It's furious. His hand fists in my hair, my hands shove against his chest—pushing and pulling at the same time—and I'm kissing him as if I want to punish him with it, and he's kissing me back like he wants just that.
I bite his lower lip and he groans, and the sound zooms through my whole body.
I hate him, I hate him, and I want him so badly I can't breathe.
His back hits the wall beside the door. Or I shove him into it. Who knows. Who cares.
His hands find my waist, yanking me against him, and I feel how hard he is through his jeans. It sends a jolt of heat straight through my core. My fingers scrabble at his belt, as his hand slides down the front of my jeans without hesitation, just his rough fingers sliding into my panties, and when he finds me wet and swollen, the groan he lets out is guttural and broken.
"Fuck you," I breathe against his mouth, and it comes out like a moan.
"Yeah,fuck me," he says, stroking me, and my knees buckle.
I get his belt open, his zipper down, and my hand wraps around the thick, hard length of his cock. He hisses through his teeth.
We're both breathing as if we've been running, and his fingers are stroking through my folds exactly the way he did that night, because of course he remembers, he pays attention, because he's?—
Don't think about what he is.
He works me with those rough, talented fingers—slow, then fast, then slow when I chase it, the tease—and I pump his cock in my fist, feeling him throb, his hips jerking forward into my grip.
His free hand grabs the back of my neck and he holds me there, mouth against mine, but not quite kissing…just sharingbreath, sharing heat, eyes open and locked on each other in the low light.
"Come for me," he says, against my lips, husky and fractured, and the command is what breaks me.
I detonate with my hand around his cock and his fingers buried against my flesh, my whole body clenching and shaking.
I stroke him fast, as I come down from my orgasm, his pre-cum making him slick, and his climax hits in seconds with a choked groan. He spills hot over my fist, his fingers curling around the back of my neck.
For a few more seconds, there's nothing.
Just our breathing, rough and tangled.
Then reality crashes over us like a bucket of ice water.
I pull my hands away and he pulls his hands away. We stand there, barely a foot apart, and the space between us fills with everything we're not saying.