We stumble backward, bumping the counter. The sound of glass rattling somewhere registers, then disappears under the rush in my ears. She tastes like salt and adrenaline. Every inch of me burns for her—the way her breath hitches, the way her body arches against mine like she’s trying to burn the fight away too.
My hands slide to her hips, dragging her closer, until the space between us is gone. She pulls back just enough to whisper, voice rough, “This doesn’t fix it.”
“I know,” I breathe, and then I’m kissing her again anyway.
I kiss her again, harder, deeper, my tongue tangling with hers, claiming her, owning her. Her hands are everywhere—clawing at my shirt, yanking it over my head, her fingers tracing the muscles of my chest. I’m tearing at her clothes too, rippingher shirt open, exposing her perky breasts, her nipples tight and begging for my mouth. I latch onto one, sucking hard, my tongue swirling, my teeth grazing, and she arches into me, a sharp cry escaping her lips.
The world narrows to heat and need and the sharp edge of want that’s been building for months. It’s furious, consuming, the kind of release that feels like it could break us or save us. Every touch is an apology I can’t say out loud, every gasp a confession we’re too stubborn to make.
“Leo,” she moaned, her voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. “Not here. The bed?—”
“Fuck the bed,” I snarl, lifting her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist. I’m grinding against her, my throbbing cock pressed into her wet heat, and she is rocking against me, her pussy dripping, her breath coming in jagged gasps.
I kiss down her neck, biting, sucking, marking her as mine, my hands sliding down her thighs, pulling her closer. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, her panties already torn and discarded, and I am fucking desperate to be inside her. I tear open my jeans, my cock springing free, and she is reaching for it, stroking it, her fingers tight around my shaft.
“Fuck me,” she demands, her voice hoarse. “Now, Leo. Please.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I line up my cock, her wetness coating the head, and I thrust into her, hard and deep, burying myself in her tight, hot pussy. She cries out, her head falling back, her body trembling as I fill her.
“Fuck, Sage,” I groan, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
She meets my thrusts, her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs tightening around me. Her pussy is clenching around my cock, milking me, and I am losing it. I pound into her,the counter creaking under us, the sound of our skin slapping together filling the air.
“Harder,” she pants, her eyes glazed with need. “Fuck me harder, Leo.” I don’t hold back. I am fucking her like I am trying to break her, like I am trying to erase every doubt, every hurt, every fucking word we’d thrown at each other. Her breasts are bouncing with every thrust, her nipples hard and red from my mouth, and I am reaching down, fingering her clit, rubbing it in time with my strokes.
“Cum on my cock,” I growl, my voice rough.
She was shaking, her walls tightening, her breath hitching, and then she was screaming my name. Her orgasm sent me over the edge, and I begin roaring her name, my balls tightening, my cum shooting deep inside her, pulse after pulse of hot, thick seed. I am buried inside her, and I don’t want to move. I don’t want to let her go.
When it’s over, we stay there, tangled and breathless. Her head rests against my chest. My heartbeat’s still wild, slamming against my ribs. I want to say something—anything—but the words die in my throat.
The silence stretches again, this time heavier, loaded with everything we didn’t fix.
Sage pulls away first, wrapping her arms around herself. “You should shower,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
I nod, even though I don’t move. The air between us feels thick, like we’re both standing in the aftermath of something we can’t undo.
For a second, I almost tell her I’m sorry. Almost tell her I don’t know how to stop ruining things that matter.
But instead, I stay silent and watch her walk down the hall.
The ache in my chest makes it hard to breathe.
The room feels different after she’s gone—too still, like the air forgot how to move. I lean against the counter and hang my head. The quiet hum of the fridge fills the space she left behind.
From down the hall, I hear water running. The shower. A few minutes ago, that sound meant something else. Now it’s just another reminder of what I can’t fix.
I drag in a slow breath, trying to get my pulse under control. The smell of her still clings to me—soap and sweat and that faint hint of vanilla she always wears. It hits harder than I expect.
When I finally push off the counter, the apartment feels smaller, like the walls are closing in. I head for the bedroom and find her lying on her side, facing the window. The streetlight outside cuts across the room in slanted gold, painting her skin in quiet light.
I lie down beside her but keep my distance. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch when the mattress dips under my weight.
For a long time, we just breathe. Her inhale, my exhale, the rhythm out of sync. My hand itches to reach for her—to smooth the hair from her shoulder, to bridge the space between us—but I don’t. I can’t.
Because if I touch her now, I’ll want too much.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” I whisper finally.
