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He massages soap all over my body, foaming it against my skin; the water is warm and strong, landing on me like my own personal waterfall. His hands linger on my arse and his eyes hold mine. I feel vulnerable and raw, exposed.
This is so perfect, and yet it is the cruellest of experiences—because I am already haunted by my inevitable departure, by the plan I came here to enact.
The time is almost ripe.
I must go now, while there is still a shred of me that has the strength to do so.
Or soon…
He kneels down, his eyes on mine, and my fingers tangle in his hair, pushing it back from his brow, raking it away so I can see all of his face. His handsome face. A face that has tormented me for years.
I brace myself for what’s to come—his lips against me, tormenting me anew with sensual need.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he begins to lather my legs, starting at my ankles, swirling the soap around my calves and behind my knees, lifting to my thighs. And then his fingers splay at my hips and he spins me around so I am facing the marble wall of the shower. His hands lift to my arse and he touches me gently, running his fingers over flesh that is sensitive and erotic.
I push my butt back, closer to him, and he laughs—a husky sound of surrender. Water washes away the soap and then he kisses me, his lips warm.
I tremble, glad for the wall—glad for its support, glad for its strength to build up my own.
He thinks he can fuck me and tell me it’s over? While he’s still fucking inside me?
I love Manning with all that I am, but right now I hate him a fair bit too. Bastard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘DON’T RUSH,’ I CALL, catching his reflection in the mirror.
He’s still in the shower, his back against the marble wall, his eyes focused dead ahead, his expression brooding. Is he thinking about me? Us? This? Is he wondering what just happened? Is he worried about how to get rid of me?
I don’t know and I can’t care.
I move quickly, back into the lounge area, where my dress has been cast aside. I lift it into place, eschewing underwear of any sort because I need to get the hell out of here. My bag is by the door. I catch my reflection as I stalk towards it and grimace. My hair is a wet curtain down my back and all my make-up has been kissed off, or wiped off on his sheets, or washed away in the shower. I look pale and haunted, like a wraith bent on destruction. Which I suppose I am.
But leaving him without so much as a cursory explanation doesn’t feel right. As Manning pointed out, at least he had the decency to leave a goddamned note.
I grimace and move back into the lounge, straining to hear the shower. Yes, it’s still going.
I have time.
There’s a pad on a side table, yet for the life of me I don’t see a pen. But Manning’s jacket is discarded over a chair and I know he always, without exception, keeps a pen in his top pocket. Just like his father.
I reach into the fabric and remove the pen that I know will be there, uncapping it and hovering it over the paper for a moment, thinking of what to write.
Now you know how it feels.
The water has stopped. I have moments only.
I replace the pen, but as I slip it into his pocket my fingers catch on something and I remove it with natural curiosity.
It’s a ticket, torn to show it’s been used, and it’s for the performance I did tonight.
Everything is sucked out of me. All my certainties disappear. Confusion reigns.
He came?
To see me?
