Page 87 of Breathe Like Hell

Dakota was the only reason he was back in my life at all, and if she left him like I wanted her to, then I might genuinely never see him again. My feelings about that concept were far messier than I wanted to admit. There was a foreign knot in my chest when I thought about it.

I pulled into his driveway and shut the engine off. For a minute, neither of us made any move to get out of the car. Maybe Micah could feel it, too. The potential finality of this moment.

Is this going to be the last time we separate?

“I left some of my shit in the bedroom,” I said, breaking the silence. “So I’m gonna grab it, then I’ll leave.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Hopefully I never have to come back here.” There wasn’t much force behind my words, but I said them anyway.

“Hopefully not.”

We got out of the car and Micah walked up the steps to his front door while I lingered a few paces behind, my head down. He stepped to the side to let me pass him, my feet carrying me into his house.

Micah shut the front door behind me, then turned the deadbolt. But both of us just stood there in the entryway. I wasn’t going upstairs to get my few leftover belongings; Micah wasn’t going any further into the house. The entire first floor was dark, not a single light on, and all the darkness did was strengthen the reminder that this might be my very last memory of him.

Us, standing in a dark hallway, not speaking.

Looking tired and angry and exactly the same.

Wind blew against the house, the windows creaking in their frames.

Seconds stretched on and on. Our silence pulled painfully between us, full of everything we’d never said, and everything we had. Words of hatred and love and every emotion in between. He used to be my entire life. For so long. I needed to go upstairs, collect my shit, then leave. But I couldn’t move.

The circumstances were different now, but the same feeling of uncertainty lingered underneath it all. The same sickening turn of my stomach while I waited for our second inevitable end.

This time, I wanted it to be the end.

I was so fucking ready to be done with him for good.

So fucking ready to have my life back.

But what was my life without Micah Killshaw?

I dared to glance over at him.

His eyes met mine and I felt it in my soul.

Kill.

We moved at the same time, eliminating the distance between us in a few long strides, our bodies colliding as our mouths did. The kiss was urgent and messy, tongues hot and seeking, groans spilling into open mouths.

And then we were ripping our clothes off. Cotton shredding and denim tearing, shoes kicked off in any direction as long as they didn’t get in the way. I was going to die if I couldn’t touch him—all of him.

Every single fucking inch.

If this was going to be the last time, I needed it all.

Our kiss was a filthy blur of lips and tongues and teeth, rough hands gripping anything they could reach, stumbling footsteps into the living room. I shoved my boxers down, kicking them off, and Micah did the same, his knuckles skimming over my nipple on the way to my jutting cock, strong fingers wrapping around me.

I kissed him harder, deeper, licking into his mouth, hand sliding down to jerk him while he jerked me.

His cock was heavy and swollen, practically throbbing in my palm, our harsh exhales breaking against each other as we gripped and stroked and pumped.

“Turn around,” Micah grated out.

I might’ve cared about resisting him any other time, but I had no idea if this was ever going to happen again after right now. And I wanted it bad. Bad enough not to protest when he turned me and bent me forward. Bad enough not to do anything other than let him position me to be fucked.