She gives me a cold smile. “I’ve already started.”
“Fuck!”
I pull out and drive back inside her, fucking her as hard as I physically can. My knees burn against the rug like the skin is being torn off.
She stares at me the whole time, anger blowing her pupils wide as her tits bounce in the gap between us. I know she’s holding my eyes on purpose. It’s not about intimacy this time. It’s about showing me what I’m throwing away. What she will never give me again after tonight.
It’s about giving me one last great big ‘fuck you’ before she leaves.
She tips her head back and moans, coming around my cock in rippling waves.
“Tate,” I growl, the feel of her setting off my own release. I come so hard inside her that my head spins. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I keep thrusting as she comes again and tears her nails down my back.
If this is the last time I’ll ever have her like this, then God knows I’m going to make it count.
It’s 5.30 a.m. when she slides out of my bed. Our bodies parted for the final time less than an hour ago, and we’ve been lying beside one another in silence since.
The last proper words I said to her were the rough,“I’m so fucking sorry”,as I came inside her in the living room.
I’ve come inside her more times since then. And on her breasts, over her ass, down her throat. All in groans and grunts. Sometimes, I’ve not even pulled out in between. We’ve just stared at each other in silence.
No words. Just the warmth of each other’s bodies, the taste of each other’s kisses, the scent of each other’s skin.
And the sight of each other’s eyes as we held on to them like anchors.
Neither of us wanted to break it. Because once that final time was over, that would be it.
We’d be here.
In the moment where it’s come for her to leave.
Muffled crying comes from inside my bathroom, and I stare at the strip of light spilling from underneath the door. The sound of her pain reaches my body like a beckoning finger, urging me to climb out of bed and go to her. To find a way to fix this.
But there isn’t one.
I screw my eyes closed and turn my back to the bathroom door.
It opens and she walks into the room, but she doesn’t falter.
She pads softly across the carpet and opens the door.
Then she’s gone.
39
TATE
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Go and sing.”My dad beams, nodding enthusiastically at me where we’re standing backstage.
I wiggle my fingers by my sides, trying to shake the tingling nerves from them. I’m about to play the piano and sing a new song in front of thousands of people. We’re in LA. I’ve already done it multiple times. I should be used to it by now.
“I’m going to be sick again,” I blurt, before one of the stage crew calmly hands me a bucket.
I deposit the contents of my twisting stomach into it and take the cold washcloth Dad hands to me. It’s all part of my pre-show routine now. Everyone knows what to do.
