Page 89 of Reaper's Desire

And the worst part is, I'd let her do it again in a heartbeat.

—

Minutes tick by,and then I move, slowly climbing up onto the bed next to her. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't stop me. I lie there next to her, naked, and for a long moment, we justlook at each other. I feel myself stiffening, but I ignore it. Her gaze flicks down, then back up.

"You can touch it now if you want to."

A low, raspy laugh escapes my throat. "I figured as much. But I don't want to."

"No?" Her eyes stay locked on mine. "Do you want me to?"

My abdomen flexes, my cock leaping at the question. She laughs softly and reaches down, her fingers encircling me. She strokes once, slowly, then again, and then tugs lightly, pulling me toward her.

Slowly, I shift over top of her, watching her face, waiting for her to tell me to stop. But she doesn't. She just spreads her legs, giving me space to slide between them, and my hips settle against hers as I feel my cockhead slide against her slick, hot entrance.

She moans, and my entire body stiffens, need coursing through me as I start to slip into her. She's so fucking wet from the orgasms I gave her, but still tight around me, my cock a perfect fit as I slide in one slow inch at a time, savoring the feeling of her around me.

This is the last time. We both know it. Whatever happens tomorrow, there's no future beyond that. The pain in my chest is exquisite, the worst and best thing I've ever felt, a love that remade and destroyed me all at once.

When I sink all the way into her, she gasps, wrapping herself around me, legs and arms and hands twining around my body. She arches up, her lips meeting mine, and for a long time, we move just like that. Slow, my cock sliding in and out of her in lazy strokes meant to draw it out, my lips on hers, her nails scratching slow lines down my back. I kiss her, and I fuck her, and I let her feel everything I can't say to her aloud as I take her and make her mine one last time.

As I give myself to her, one last time.

She moans as she comes around me, her breasts pressed to my chest, shuddering as she comes apart. I feel her clench around my cock, and I want so fucking badly to come inside of her, to feel her heat around me as I fill her up.

But I won't do that to her—leave her with something she didn't ask for, when there's no future for us. So at the last possible second, when I can no longer hold back the climax burning up my spine, I pull free of her, moaning with the aching need to stay as I wrap my hand around my cock and spurt over her, painting her skin with my cum.

She gasps, arching as the hot liquid stains her skin, and I stare at her, so fucking beautiful it hurts.

I collapse next to her, and for several long moments, neither of us says anything. Then she gets up without a word, and goes to the bathroom, and I hear the shower turn on.

—

I waketo the sound of movement in the room and the absence of warmth beside me.

My eyes open slowly, my head pounding with the remnants of last night's alcohol, and I see Isabelle across the room. She's already dressed, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She's moving with purpose, packing her few belongings into her bag.

The vulnerability of last night is gone. She's thrown up her walls again, putting distance between us despite what happened just hours ago.

It stings more than I have any right to feel.

I push myself up to sit, wincing at the protest from my body. My knees are bruised, my jaw aches, and there's a soreness in my muscles that reminds me of exactly what we did last night. I want to pull her back into bed and do it again.

"You're up," Isabelle says without looking at me. Her voice is cool, like we're colleagues preparing for a business meeting instead of two people who were tangled together intimately just hours ago. I watch her for a moment, trying to read her body language, but she's giving me nothing. Her entire demeanor screamsdistance. "What time can we leave?"

She's protecting herself. I understand that. But understanding doesn't make it hurt less.

"There's a flight at three this afternoon."

"Then we should get moving." She finally turns to face me. Her expression is carefully blank, her eyes guarded. "We don't have time to waste."

The dismissal is clear. Last night was last night. Whatever vulnerability we shared has been compartmentalized. If she forgave me—which is what felt like she did—it was closure for her, and now she's putting that aside and focusing on what comes next.

I should be relieved. This is easier, less complicated. But instead, I feel something twist in my chest that feels uncomfortably like loss.

"Isabelle—" I start, not sure what I'm going to say.

"Don't." She cuts me off, her voice sharp. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. We have work to do. That's all that matters right now."