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The wet heat of Lyla’s mouth envelops more of my dick, and my mind goes entirely blank. She sucks on the head, then relaxes her jaw and takes me deeper into her throat.
I should stop her. I’m sure she’ll regret this in the morning. This unexpected turn of events is likely fueled by vodka and boredom, neither of which are great decision makers.
Everything between us is already complicated enough.
But,fuck, does it feel good.
And if I were a good man, I wouldn’t be in the shower, washing blood away.
I’m not gentle as I take what she’s offering.
Lyla is layered. She’s not as delicate as her expressive eyes and elegant features express. Especially when it comes to sex. She always preferred it rough and desperate. She loved it when I talked dirty to her.
Memories of our time together haunted me for years after leaving Philadelphia. There were lots of nights when I was alone—and nights when I wasn’t—when I thought of her.
But no memory compares to the reality.
Leftover adrenaline swims through my system. My senses are heightened, and my emotions are a mess.
I rest my head back against the cool tile, watching my cock slide in and out of Lyla’s mouth. I don’t guide her, letting Lyla choose how much of my erection she takes. I can already feel the build of heat at the base of my spine as she takes me deep enough to hit the back of her throat and swallows.
I groan her name.
Her mouth is tight and hot and wet. I fight off the impending orgasm so I can savor the sensation for longer. My hips jerk automatically, thrusting once.
She doesn’t pull away, just sucks harder. I come without further warning, my breathing ragged and my heart racing, audible over the spray of water.
My body blocks most of the spray, but there are spots of water darkening sections of her sweater. When Lyla stands, her knees are wet from the floor.
Water patters around us like rain.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” is the first thing she says to me.
My jaw works, irritation eating away at the remnants of bliss still flowing through me. “Yes, I did. There’s only one way out of this life.”
“What about me and Leo?”
“You’re the exception.”
I step forward. I’m dying to touch her, too, to see if she’s just as wet as she used to get from sucking me off.
But Lyla steps back. “Your hands aren’t clean,” she tells me.
My fingers clench into fists as those words collide with my chest. Water sluices down my arms and swirls around the drain. For a long stretch of time, there’s just the sound of falling water as I stare at her and she stares back.
There was a brief moment—just now—where I let myself forget everything. Where I let myself imagine what a life with Lyla and Leo would be like. Where it felt like she understood instead of resented.
I can’t even blame her for it.
I’d resent me too. I’d reject me too.
Which is why I don’t understand what the hell just happened. Why she opened the door of possibilities, just to slam it back shut. Why she initiated intimacy—got me off—and is now refusing to let me do the same to her.
But I don’t ask questions, and I sure as hell don’t offer an apology. I don’t react at all, just look at her. If she wants to paint me as a heartless bastard, then that’s the part I’ll play.
Lyla turns and walks away, leaving me standing here. The remnants of pleasure are still warming my blood. I just came harder than I have in years from a simple blow job. And in the mouth of a woman I told myself I got over a long time ago.
I stand under the shower until it turns cold, wishing my sins would wash away with the water.
