“Night at Type? You dropped that blonde in the middle of Manhattan like she was a half-finished drink,” I spit. “Then you did thatsameshit to me. First date. Five a.m. Left me in a hotel lobby like a bad decision. Real classy.” I shake my head, digging my nails into skin. “Like I was nothin’—what was the term, huh?”
I hold my palm up at him.
“A fuckin’ reoccurring problem.”
I laugh, cutting my own throat with it.
It sounds like it hurts when it comes out.
Because it does.
“You’ve been on me since day one about runnin’, but the only one who bolted was you,” I say, and his mouth parts, about to say something, but only air comes out. “I may be fucked up, Drew, but at least I had the decency to give you a heads up before I walked.”
And another orgasm?—
Oh, that’s good.I’m saying it.
“You left me empty. I left you coming.
“Let’s not pretend we’re the same.”
He runs a hand down his face, like?—
fuck she’s right.
His other hand’s flexing,
desperate to fix it, to hold me.
But the only thing holding me now is the wind, ripping through again.
My hair slaps my mouth.
I rip it back,
angry at the breeze for touching me.
“I stood on that rooftop and told you shit I’ve never said out loud. Didn’t even know I had the words, and less than an hour later?”
My voice splinters. “You were gone.”
My fingers twitch to grab my own throat and shut me the fuck up.
But I keep going, keep pushing?—
“I don’t chase.
“I’ve never chased anyone or anything.
“Not money. Not fame. Not people.
“I don’t even chase orgasms,
“and I’m clinically obsessed with those.”
His chest is rising and falling faster now.
My heart’s not beating, it’s banging.
