“Sorry.”
“No, don’tstopstop,” she said, and exhaled in frustration. He realized he’d unthinkingly slowed the movement of his hips, so he picked up the pace again.
She leaned over him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, one hand clinging to his neck as she ground against him at an angle that made them both groan. He wasn’t sure who found whom, but suddenly her other hand was brushing his, their fingers interlacing, palms pressing together. He looked down attheir hands, then up at her face to see her watching him, her eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, then back at their hands again. For some reason, that felt like the most intimate place they were joined, by far. He pushed that out of his mind, too.
He heard the rhythm of her breathing change, felt her grip on the back of his neck tighten, and he willed himself to hold on long enough for her to finish, even as that familiar tingling pressure built at the base of his spine.
He shouldn’t even care if she came or not, he realized dimly. He could be selfish if he wanted. Maybe that was what she deserved, to get all wound up and then left unsatisfied. But what he craved even more than his own release was to feel her tumble over the edge, to force her to give up some of that tightly held control for just a moment. To grasp at some kind of tangible proof that he could make her half as crazy as she made him.
He felt her shudder and clench around him, gasping and whimpering as she came. He gave her a second to come apart against him, his hand reaching beneath her shirt to stroke her back. When she opened her eyes again, though, the heat was still there, which was all he needed to thrust up into her, fast and hard, drawing more cries out of her as she let go of his hand to wrap both arms around his neck.
It wasn’t long before he came with a groan, harder than he had in years, possibly ever, hard enough that his vision went black for a second, feeling like he’d been wrung out of everything he had. He collapsed against the back of the couch, still holding her tightly to him, her head buried in his neck, their breathing slowly returning to normal.
Once the haze cleared, though, he couldn’t push the truth away any longer.
She was leaving.
She was fucking leaving.
She didn’t even tell him. She didn’t give a shit about him. And she was fucking leaving. Eventhiswas probably just some weird power move, trying to prove something to herself, or to him.
He must have tensed up, because she shifted against his chest, pressing her damp palm to his shirt as he sat them both upright. Her expression was still relaxed and peaceful. She leaned forward to kiss him.
Instinctively, he jerked his head away, feeling his gaze go hard.
She looked confused for only a split second before her face immediately clouded over with hurt, followed closely by embarrassment, her hand on his shirt tightening to a fist.
He stood so suddenly he practically pushed her off his lap, fumbling with the condom and his zipper before turning back to look at her, annoyed and disheveled on the couch.
“Why did you come here, Lilah? What the hell was this? One last chance to fuck with my head? Is that it?”
She was breathing heavily again, looking up through her lashes at him. “No.”
He waited to see if she would elaborate further, but she didn’t, just kept staring at him with that same haunted look in her eyes.
“Then what? What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, defeated.
“Well, fucking figure it out,” he snapped, his voice rising. He never yelled, couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his cool, but it was like a stranger had taken over his body and trapped him outside, unable to do anything but watch. “You know what? Iamhappy you’re leaving. You’re the worst goddamn thing that ever happened to me. And if I never see you again, it’ll be too fucking soon.”
She stood slowly, without looking at him, bending down to clutch her crumpled underwear in one hand. She walked toward him until they were toe to toe, eye to eye.
“Fuck you, Shane,” she spat, her voice ragged. All the amusement was gone, all the playfulness. He’d ruined their game, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He swallowed the obvious response.
“Congratulations,” he murmured instead.
She shot one last, fiery look at him—lips swollen, cheeks red, mascara smudged below her eyes, and her hair a mess despite their best efforts—before stalking out, slamming the door behind her.
As soon as she was gone, he got straight into the shower, taking care to keep his hair and face out of the spray. No matter how high he cranked the temperature, no matter how hard he scrubbed, he could still smell her on him. And instead of calming him down, that churning, restless feeling only got worse, pressure building inside his chest like a shaken soda can.
When he got dressed and returned to the main area, Dean was sprawled on his couch, one shoe off, an open bag of chips on his chest, playingCall of Duty. It wasn’t an unusual sight, but in Shane’s state of agitation, it was the last straw.
“Get out.” The bitterness in his own voice startled him.
Dean craned his neck to look at him. “What’s with you?”
