It’s punishing. It’s not until I pull back that I see a tear slip from her eye.
“Don’t cry, Tessa baby. I’m yours, and I’ve always been yours. Even if you don’t want me. Even if you’re not mine.”
She chokes back a sob, my mouth on hers again as I fuck her into the table. The force of our lovemaking has me wondering if I’ll end up breaking the damn thing.
This isn’t slow. This isn’t careful. It’s raw—two people who’ve been holding back for too long, colliding like it might be the last time.
The office smells like sweat and bad decisions. We don’t stop until we break—both of us raw, shaking, breathing like we’ve run straight through every line we swore we wouldn’t cross.
Then it’s over, and the silence that always seems to hang over us follows.
Tessa sits up slowly, shoving her skirt down, her hair falling into her face. Her hands tremble, and I hate that I know why.
I want to say something—anything—but there’s nothing that won’t sound like another lie.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. The shame hits hard.
She keeps her eyes down, jaw tight, every breath sharp with anger. The space between us is filled with everything we didn’t say.
I reach for my shirt. She hops down from the table and swipes hers, quickly pulling hers over her head. The sound of her shoes on the floor is louder than any words we could say.
When I finally find my voice, it comes out low. “Tess—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in, voice rough. “We’ve already said enough. We’ll just consider this a heat-of-the-moment thing.”
That one lands clean. I had it coming.
I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her again. “You should go.”
She lets out a bitter laugh, with a fake smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Yeah. I should.”
By the time she passes me, the air feels heavy. She doesn’t look back when the door slams.
I stand there a second, trying to catch my breath, but it’s useless. Everything smells like her.
When I finally step into the hall, the cold air hits like punishment.
Two players are loitering by the locker room, laughing over something on a phone. Their voices dip when they see me.
“Hothead Barlowe.”
I don’t need to see their screen to know what they’re watching. With my jaw tightened, I turn away from them and keep walking.
Pretending I haven’t just wrecked everything. Pretending the ache in my chest isn’t because I can feel her slowly slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to fix it. How to get her to wait for me, to hold on.
I tell myself to breathe.
To move on.
To let her go.
But my hands are still shaking, and I know damn well I won’t.
Chapter Twenty-One
Clay
Three days.
