Me neither. I think it, but I don’t say it.
I curl my fingers into the comforter as he works me from behind, slowly and decadently, as if he wants to drag this out for as long as he can.
Lips brush beneath my ear and his fingers come up to my jaw, turning my head to the side. He presses a wet kiss to the corner of my mouth and the moan he releases is both pained and perfect.
He turns my head further so he can slide his tongue into my mouth while fucks me deeply. Our breaths curl around each other, our lips sucking hard, and our tongues stroking back and forth. It’s messy and uneven but I wouldn’t want it any other way. Clamping my inner muscles around him, I pull his cock deep, feeling the crown rub against my g spot over and over again.
Between his cock and his firm hand both holding me in place, I’m contained and protected from the world. Protected, for now, from the grief of leaving him.
Tugging my bottom lip between his teeth he lowers his hand to my sex and flutters his fingers over my clit. He pushes back up my body and takes a handful of breast, squeezing it with a groan. Sweeping his one good hand across my stomach he reaches for the other breast pinching the nipple and seemingly memorizing every surface and contour.
“Augusto…” I whimper.
“I’ve got you, my angel,” he whispers. “I want you to come apart on my dick one last time. I want to feel you shake the way no other man has made you shake. I want to hear you gasp my name, one last time. Do you think you can do that for me, Erin?”
He pushes a thumb into my mouth and I suck on it softly, murmuring my agreement around it. I’ll give him anything in this moment so I’m thankful he just plugged my mouth before he can ask me again for the one thing I can’t give him.
“You’ve shattered me, my angel,” he continues, brokenly. “If this is the last time you say my name, I want it to be the one sound that follows me to my grave.”
His words tear me apart and I choke back a tortured cry. This can’t be happening. I’m devastated and falling apart in his arms but I’m flying on the crest of an orgasm, one that is going to rip me at the seams.
“Augusto—” I gasp.
“That’s it, angel. Come for me,” he coaxes, massaging his fingers over my clit as the tremors rock me from the inside out.
“Augusto… My God, Augusto…”
“Jesus,” he croaks, then fucks into me hard. “Yes, Erin.”
My fists squeeze the comforter as I come forcefully around him, shaking with the intensity. He doesn’t let up, thrusting into me again and again, even after he’s spent and leaking out of me.
He buries his face in my neck and emits a moan like a wounded animal. It brings all the tears to my eyes.
We hold each other like this for a long time, him seated inside me, his good arm wrapped tightly around my body. Silently, I make my peace with who we are and what we need to do. I can only hope he’s doing the same.
When I crawl out from beneath his arm and it slips back to the bed, I glance at his face and know that peace is too far out of reach for him. And that is all the more reason for me to leave. It will only get harder for both of us if I don’t.
I bend down to give him one last kiss. His lashes are damp but if any tears have fallen from his eyes, they’ve long since dried.
“Goodbye, August King,” I say.
He smiles sadly, and I leave the room, forcing myself to not turn back.
Erin
18 months later
Eighteen months is a long time. Long enough for a new life to set down roots, another school year to pass, and for scar tissue to grow over the trauma of watching the man you once loved hold a gun to his own daughter’s head.
But somehow, it isn’t long enough to commit the sound of another man’s voice to merely a memory, as opposed to something I feel and hear every day.
I shelve the last of the returned books and take a step back, scanning the display table with smug satisfaction. Historical romance on the left, young adult reads front and center, a handwritten sign recommending summer reads in curling blue ink.
I’d never planned to work in a library, but as Paige settled into her new life, found new friends and spent more time withthem, I found myself with more and more capacity on my hands. More time to myself, more time to think, more time to remember. So, I turned to books.
I read everything I could get my hands on—anything to stop my mind from straying back to salt and pepper hair, inked forearms and rough fingers.
When I’d finally exhausted Mallorie’s rock star biographies and Mom’s historical romance books, I took their exasperated advice and joined the local library.
