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“You did,” she mutters. Pulling away, I smooth her wild curls away from her face.
“I love you, my golden girl.” Her jaw tenses, her smile wobbling. But I see her eyes gloss over with unshed tears. Kissing them away, she wraps herself tighter around me.
“I love you, Roman Payne.”
A smile is already on my face as my eyes open. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, a soreness I welcome. One I begged for. I stretch my arms above my head, a small groan leaving me.
I feel good.
Better than good.
I feel incredible. I feel on top of the world.
I have my man beside me, hopefully as happy and sated as I am.
And right now, my pain, the dull, empty ache I’d been feeling for weeks, is a distant memory. It might come back in an hour, or a day, or a few minutes. But right now, right this second, I’m okay.
The sunlight shines through the window, illuminating Roman’s room, and I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time. Everything looks brighter, more colorful.
With the smile still plastered to my face, I roll over, ready to wake Roman up with my mouth around his cock. But when I face his side, my stomach sinks.
Where is he?
His side is empty.
Running my hand along the smooth sheets, they feel cold. How long ago did he leave?
Dread pools in my stomach as I stare at the spot he should be. He left. He’s gone. He ran away after we shared something special, just like he did four years ago.
Our history, a cycle we can’t seem to break, is repeating itself. Over and over, we find ourselves back here. Him, gone. Me, abandoned.
Never together. Not for long.
Something always tears us apart, always comes between us. What is it this time? Cold feet? Fear? Did he change his mind?
Dirty.
My throat tightens as I push myself out of bed, looking around to find my discarded shirt. Grabbing it, I slide it and a pair of panties on, then make my way out of the room, ready to confront him.
I don’t know what time it is, or who all’s out here. But I need to talk to him. To tell him this isn’t okay. Him leaving me is not okay.
And if he continues doing it, then…
Then I’m leaving.
I’m done.
No, you’re not, that stupid voice in my head sings, but I ignore it.
He can’t keep leaving me. He can’t keep running away when he feels anxious, or pressure, or…whatever he’s feeling.
Annoyance and anger mix inside me as I stomp through the silent loft, looking for him. When I don’t find him upstairs or in the living room, worry starts to seep in.
Where is he?
I make my way into the kitchen, finding him plating food, and I pause. How did I miss him when I first came out? I should’ve seen him. He’s impossible to miss.
Yet, I did.
