Last night in London.
Tomorrow—Heathrow. New York. My father.
One last night with her.
I didn't know when—or if—I'd be back.
The show tonight had destroyed me. Watching her on that stage, owning every second, while I sat there knowing I'd have to disappear. Knowing she'd wake up and I'd be gone. No explanation. No goodbye.
Just gone.
I used my key. Slipped in quiet, boots left at the door. Stripped to boxers in the dark, dropping clothes on her chair like I'd done a thousand times before.
Slid into bed beside her.
Then froze.
Completely naked.
She was completely fucking naked.
No shirt. No shorts. Nothing.
Just bare skin against the sheets, her back to me, the curve of her hip visible in the dim light.
"The fuck?" I breathed, pulling back slightly.
My cock went instantly hard. Painfully hard.
She stirred, turned her head slightly, eyes barely opening. "Mm?"
"Why are you—" I gestured vaguely at her naked body. "You're naked."
She blinked slowly, still half-asleep. "I'm hot."
Yeah. No shit.
"If you have a problem with it," she mumbled, already drifting back, "go sleep in your own bed. Or the couch."
Then her eyes closed and she was gone again, breathing evening out.
Leaving me there. Hard as a fucking rock. Staring at her naked back.
I should leave. Should go to the couch like she said. This was torture.
But this was my last night with her.
Last night to hold her. To breathe her in. To pretend, for just a few more hours, that I wasn't about to destroy everything.
I won't let my cock take away the last moments I have with her.
I moved closer, carefully, and wrapped my arms around her. Pulled her back against my chest.
She sighed, settling into me, her body fitting perfectly against mine like it always did.
My cock pressed against her ass—hard, insistent, impossible to ignore. But I held still. Breathed through it. Focused on the weight of her in my arms, the rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her hair.
This. Just this. One last time.
