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“Tell me you missed me,” I say. It’s cruel, demanding this of her when I have her so close, holding her hostage until she says what I need her to say, what I need to hear.
There’s no hesitation. “I missed you.”
“Tell me you missed my cock.”
She snorts and pulls my lips to hers. “I missed your cock,” she whispers against my mouth.
“Tell me you're mine.”
“I’m yours,” she moans. The sound that falls from her mouth almost does me in, but I hold on as I slam into her, as a fuck her hard and rough and watch as she finally falls off that cliff. When she comes, I press my hand down hard on her mouth, muting her loud moans as I grunt out my own and spill my load inside her.
“Goddammit Katie,” I say as I catch my breath. I should tell her too. That I missed her, that perfect pussy, that laugh, that smile, her eyes, her tits, kissing her, touching her. I should tell her all of it.Come back with me,is what I want to say,I’m yours too,is what I should say, but instead I just lay on top of her, breathing in her breath, my eyes locking with hers, my dick still hard inside of her.
It’s another minute before her face changes. It’s that look women get sometimes when the high of their orgasm finally wears off and they realize they’ve fucked the wrong man. She doesn’t have to say what she’s feeling—regret, guilt, shame. Because Katie’s a good person—I’m the selfish one, I’m the one who didn’t care what she’d feel after, I’m the one who didn’t care about the pain I’d cause her, of the life I’m disrupting.
“Katie,” I start, but she shakes her head and pushes me off.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” she says as she grabs her clothes, and for the second time in two days she’s quickly dressing and leaving me behind. Leaving me alone like I couldn’t help but do to her for the last fucking decade. Karma is a fucking bitch.
It’s 11 am there’s a diamond ring in my pocket.
10
It’s2amandI’m pacing.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I’m barefoot on the pavement, and it’s too cold to be, but I’ve never much liked having my feet covered if I could help it.
The colours don’t work. It’s not right. None of it. I’ve never been good at working with too many colours. I like black, greyscale, bursts of colour but not too much. Except when I’m with Kate. When I’m with Kate I only see colour. But she hasn’t talked to me in three days.
Three days.
I want to rip my fucking hair out.
So I’m pacing, staring up at my outlines and the buckets of paint sitting on the lift and nothing is right.
I’ll need to change everything. Something thatinspires. The only thing this inspires me to do is to ride that lift up to the top of the tallest building I can find and jump off it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Her ring is burning a hole in my pocket. She hasn’t asked for it back and I don’t try to wonder why. Because I know why. The guilt. Seeing me would remind her of what she did, what I made her do. And I made her. I should have been the one to stop it, but her and I both know I’ll never be that guy. I’ll always be the guy who takes, and she gives so easily that I can’t help but take too much.
“James,” her voice makes me jump and I whirl around to find myself less than a foot away from her. Close. Her body is so close to mine I almost reach my hand to her hip, I almost forget I can’t touch her, that she belongs to someone else.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She tilts her head. “You have my ring. I need it back.”
I blink. “Why are you here so late?”
“My ring James, give it to me.”
I manage to force a smile. “No.”
Kate purses her lips, but rather than argue, rather than push me like I know she wants to, she turns on her heel and stalks off, and I pull on my shoes and chase after her. All the way to the parking lot. She’s practically jogging by the time she hits the asphalt, but I’m right behind her, and before she can jump into her car, I have her pressed against it.
