My hand slides under the covers, between my thighs. I'm already wet, ready, aching.
I touch myself the way he used to, circling my clit with slow, deliberate strokes. In my mind, it's his fingers, his hand, his mouth.
I imagine him here, pulling off my panties, settling between my legs. That wicked grin he always wore before he made me scream. The way his tongue felt against my most sensitive places.
"Declan," I whisper into the darkness, my fingers moving faster.
I picture him sliding inside me, filling me completely. The stretch, the burn, the overwhelming pleasure of having him so deep. His hands gripping my hips, holding me in place while he takes what he wants.
What we both want.
My other hand finds my breast, pinching my nipple the way he used to. Pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
"Please," I gasp, not sure if I'm begging my own hand or the phantom of him in my mind. "Dec."
I imagine him leaning down, whispering in my ear all the things he wants to do to me. The way his voice would drop to that gravelly register that always made me clench around him.
I'm close, so close. My hips buck against my hand, chasing the release I desperately need.
But when I come, it's hollow. Empty. The orgasm washes over me without satisfaction, leaving me more frustrated than before.
Because it's not enough. My fingers aren't enough. The fantasy isn't enough.
I need him, and I hate myself for it.
I curl onto my side, tears streaming down my face. The orgasm did nothing except remind me of everything I've lost. Of how good it was when he touched me.
My body is still aching for more. But that would mean letting him back in to destroy me all over again.
I can't do that.
I won't.
Wiping my face, I sit up and reach for my phone. Declan's number stares back at me. Below it, saved under a crown emoji, is King's number.
Same man. Different lies.
I block them both.
Then I go through social media, making sure every trace of Declan Hawthorne disappears with a tap. Even if my treacherous body still craves his touch, my heart is done.
I fell in love with the wrong man. A man my heart still beats for but who will never deserve me. He chose control over honesty, playing with my emotions like they were pieces in a game only he knew the rules to.
From now on, I’ll focus on myself and my future.
I check my calendar. This is what matters. Not Declan Hawthorne and his talented hands and devastating mouth. I force myself to read through my research. The words blurtogether at first, but gradually, they come into focus. I notice the data I've collected, the patterns I've identified, the potential impact of my work.
This is who I am. Dr. Ivy Chandler, researcher, scientist, someone who makes a difference.
Not the woman who falls apart over a man who lied to her.
I work until my eyes burn and the ache between my thighs finally fades to something manageable. When I finally crawl back into bed, exhaustion drags me under quickly. My last thought before sleep claims me is that tomorrow, I'll wake up and focus on what actually matters.
I'll start building the life Declan Hawthorne tried to destroy.
Even if tonight, all I can think about is the taste of him on my lips and the emptiness of coming alone.
26
