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Billie’s body starts to tense, like his. His tenses with anger, hers with the climbing thrill.
A whimper comes from her—
And the moment it does, Preston turns savage. Gripping her tight, he pulls her from the refrigerator door just an inch or so, then slams her back into it.
Her whimper turns to a cry.
He fucks her into the door.
Everything inside the refrigerator clatters on the shelves, glass breaking, cans toppling over.
Billie hardly hears it over the harsh breaths and moans that build through her.
“God,” she moans and drops her forehead against his, as if to find the companion in him as it runs through her, the jolts of electricity and the shudders in her legs.
Preston is no companion. Not this time.
His hand leaves her neck for her chin, and he grips so hard that her lips smoosh out.
Just as his pistoning pace comes to a halt, with a final one, two, three thrust—he spits right into her mouth.
Still, Billie climax hits with a shout. His with a groan, tense like the anger bolting up his body.
And he slams into her one last time.
Always, afterwards, he slumps against her. Relaxed. Melting into her.
Not today.
He lingers for only a heartbeat before she’s suddenly cold. He pulls out of her and steps back.
Billie’s legs give out and she slides down the door. Sits on the floor. And in her mist of climax and vodka, she lazily looks up at him from wet lashes.
Looks at a face colder than she feels.
A face that has no love, only hate.
The buckle clasps with the familiar clang she’s heard after so many fucks with him over so many years. But this time it feels different.
For the first time, Billie feels like trailer trash… and she looks up at him like he’s a wasp. One who just fucked every bit of use right out of her body—and now she’s discarded on the floor… just sitting against the refrigerator, watching him fix up his belt.
But Preston doesn’t see it that way.
Opposite her in the kitchen, he looks up at her from beneath his long lashes. Darkness outside has set, casting shadows over him. And all he says is, “You’re a headfuck… and a headcase.”
Billie smiles. It’s a small gesture, it’s bitter, but it’s so ugly that—after a mere second or two of looking at it—Preston shakes his head and looks away.
Neither of them says anything.
Before they can, his cell rings. It’s a loud, blaring noise that makes her cringe.
He answers it.
Billie watches. She listens.
But all he says is, “On my way.”
Then he hangs up.
