Sorry, sweetheart.
A few minutes pass. I stare at the phone, knowing that this conversation needs to end here, but it shouldn’t. We’re too good at being with each other. We’re too good at flirting. We’re too good at secrets hidden behind hotel room doors.
Me
I know we said it ends tonight, but since it’s technically still ‘tonight’...do pictures count?
Boston
Fuck pictures. Come to the door.
I’m out of bed before I can think. I swing open the door and he storms in, cupping my face, smashing his lips to mine as he kicks it closed behind him. He’s hard against my stomach, and I moan in relief. I need this. I need more. I need him.
We don’t make it to the bed. He hauls me into the bathroom and hikes me onto the counter. He balls his hands in the fabric of his shirt, tearing it up my body, and positions himself between my legs. He fucks me hard and fast, and I cling to him, gasping in his ear, kissing down his neck.
“Fuck, no condom,” he grumbles, but it’s too late for me. I come, throwing my head back, my nails digging into his shoulders.
Irresponsible.
He groans, ready to combust in my wake, so he slides out and steps toward me. I reach for him instead, taking him in my hand, giving him the last few strokes that he needs to send him over the edge. He finishes with the hottest noise I’ve ever heard, all over my skin. I let out a relieved breath as I slow my movements.
“I feel fucking insatiable,” he admits, bracketing my hips with his hands on the counter. His dark hair falls in his face, green eyes burning into mine. “Like I can keep doing this for hours. Fordays.”
I smile, reaching forward to push his hair back. “I’m highly addictive.”
He snorts, leaning forward to press his lips to mine. It’s slow. Different. Even as he reaches over to snatch the cloth off the sink, even as he turns on the sink to get it wet, he doesn’t stop kissing me. He cleans my body free of him and then winds his arms around my back, pulling me close.
And he…hugs me?
I slide my arms around his shoulders, letting my eyes flutter shut as his palms glide up my back.
“I’m going to kiss you goodnight now,” he murmurs in my ear, “and that will be the end of our sentence.”
“It’s technically morning,” I say softly, squeezing him a bit tighter. I don’t want an end to our sentence. I want a paragraph. A whole novel. I’m not ready to call this, not when it just started. We’re still on the first page, dammit. “And I’d prefer an ellipsis. A dot, dot, dot.”
“A kiss good morning and a single dot. That’s the best I can do.”
A period. The end of a sentence.
“Okay,” I whisper, but I don’t move and neither does he. “But what if I don’t want you to go?”
His hand slides up to my hair as he cups my neck. “Trust me, sweetheart. I don’t want to go anywhere. But I have to.Wehave to.”
But I’m not ready.
“You were everything I expected you to be, Boston Black,” I say as I lean back, keeping my arms wrapped around his neck. I smile warmly up at him, knowing my cheeks are pink with a post-orgasm flush, and that I look as tired as I feel.
He cups my face, green eyes melting into mine. He looks at me like I have the power to destroy everything he’s worked for. “And you were more than I could have ever imagined.”
My smile grows, and he leans down, slowly pressing his mouth to mine. It’s sweet. Soft. Kind of sad. There’s a lingering yearning there. A knowledge that this is the last one. That we’ll cut this off the second he’s through that door again. That this will not come back to Pittsburgh with us, but will stay and live in this little town in Canada.
He’s half bent in front of me, shirtless and unravelled. For me. I slide my hands to his jaw, tugging him back the moment he tries to pull away. I expect him to laugh, to roll his eyes, maybe–but he doesn’t. He leans into it, deepening the kiss, his hands rising to my hair, like he’s as insatiable as he said he was. Like he doesn’t want to go back home in the morning, either. Like he wants to live in this bathroom with me until we’re all that we know.
His tongue slides into my mouth, his grip tightens in my hair, and I wantmore.I want all of him. Again, and again, and again.
But he slowly pulls away, and this time, I let him. The sun is starting to poke in through the curtains, illuminating the carpet beside the open bathroom door. Boston keeps his face close, his breathing heavy, and I rest my forehead to his. His eyes flutter shut.
That’s it then.
