She was right above me, chasing pleasure with my goddamn name on her lips.
The thoughts plague me as I stomp into my bathroom, slamming the door hard enough that she likely heard it. I crank on the shower, turning the temperature up as high as I can possibly bear. The water sears my skin as I step inside. I lean against the wall and let the heat pound against my chest, my mind reeling.
It’s that soft yet rough sound that echoes in my head every time I fuck my fist. It’s what I’ve heard since she moaned my name for the first time all those years ago. I close my eyes and watch hers rolling back. Remembering the tremble of her thighs, and the contented sigh that left her mouth when I touched her in the right places.
That alluring sound is like a spell pulling me in, even though I know damn well she’d fucking kill me if I ever allowed her to get near again. It’s pure torture to know that every time I close my eyes and see her face, she may be doing the same.
Suddenly, my cock is in my hand. Raging and desperately hard. I’m pumping myself to the point of pain, knowing I shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Not now, not with her above me.
The one solace I’m supposed to have in this harsh reality is that she’s let me go. That’s the only truth that allows me to believe I’ll someday recover from her. She’s infected every fiber of my soul, a slow-spreading disease that I spent my entire life exposing myself to, the symptoms only developing in her absence.
If I let myself entertain any kind of hope of healing between us, I’ll end up obliterated by her again and knowing that she’s getting herself off while imagining me is detrimental to my delusions.
I want so badly to hate her for it. For all of it. So often, I wish that we’d never experienced the brief love affair we had. I wish I’d never felt her lips on mine, that I’d never touched or tastedher, that I’d never felt her body beneath my hands, or her skin on my mouth. I wish I’d never heard those three words uttered from her lips.
Sometimes, I wish I’d never met Elena at all.
Because on the darkest nights, in the farthest depths of despair that I fall into, I know that if I’d never loved her, I never would’ve known love period. I used to believe it a blessing that I could’ve stumbled upon the girl of my dreams as a young boy, that I’d get to spend my entire existence loving the same person—but now I know it’s nothing but a curse. A vast, numbing emptiness.
In these moments, I almost wish I’d never experienced her love to begin with.
It’s that thought that has me halting my movements, my hand tightening around my aching cock before letting it go. I rub the water from my face, refusing the urge to continue fucking myself.
Those fantasies I used to chase in the dark are no longer viable, not when she’s living here. Not when she’s doing the same.
There isa siren standing in my kitchen.
Back turned to me, her smooth legs seem to extend for miles beneath the hem of the oversized tee she has on, likely since she’s not wearing a goddamn thing beneath it. Her hips sway to the sound of Lana Del Rey filtering through the speaker on the counter.
She must’ve heard the slam of my door and the shower. She must know I’m home now. Though I’m not sure she realizes I’m standing right behind her as she moves to the soft music,dipping pretzel sticks directly into a jar of peanut butter while the kettle on the stove finishes boiling.
My cock throbs in my sweatpants as I stare at her.
“I know you’re standing there, Augustus,” she says nonchalantly, a catlike purr to her tone that boasts no trepidation.
She’s riding a post-orgasm high and has no idea that I heard her while she found it.
“Do you not own a pair of fucking pants?” I mutter, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a soda from the top shelf.
“I didn’t think you’d be so offended.” She laughs snidely. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She’s like a demon. No goddamn mercy, torturing me with her lush body, her endless eyes, and her siren-song of a voice.
“I’m surprised I still have such an effect on you, considering you hate me now,” she murmurs. I can’t tell if she intended for me to hear it or not.
The kettle whistles, and as she takes it off the stove and pours her tea, I slam the fridge door. “I don’t have to like you to—” I stop myself, realizing the comment I’m about to make can’t lead anywhere good.
Spinning on my heel, I intend to leave the kitchen, but the rattling chime of ceramic on quartz has me halting. Elena stands beside me, gaze narrowed as she leans over the steaming mug on the counter in front of her. “No, please go ahead and finish that sentence.”
There’s a taunting tone to her sultry voice, and a challenge inside her fuck-me eyes that screamsshow merather thantell me.
My fingers flex, flesh blazing with need to bend her over that counter and show her exactly how I feel about her attitude, her bare legs, and the way she moans my name.
I thought we’d had a moment a few weeks ago, some brief unspoken understanding of where we stand. The pain we may have mutually caused, the blame and guilt we both carry, and the silent agreement that neither of us can be asked to hold the other’s burden.
I don’t understand her sudden insistence on messing with me. It was a broken girl I allowed into my home, whom I offered that room, but the ferocity standing in front of me now is all too familiar to the spitfire I fell in love with.
