After Her Last Goodbye

Prologue

Derek

D espite the repeated failures, I persist in seeking some semblance of peace at the bottom of a bottle. Each time, there's a fleeting glimpse of relief, a momentary escape from the crushing weight of grief. It's a cruel trick, a short respite just long enough to make me forget and deepen the ache in my soul. But in those fleeting moments of oblivion, I can momentarily forget why I want to feel numb. So, night after night, I drown myself in alcohol, desperately trying to erase the memories that torment me. I try to forget.

But no matter how often I'm in Mr. Jack Daniels's company, she still finds a way to haunt me; invading my dreams is no exception.

"Derek… Derek," her soft, tender voice calls to me, stirs me from the depths of a fitful slumber. The couch beneath me, my makeshift bed, offers no relief, leaving me with a painful kink in my neck as the only reminder of my restless night.

I forced my eyes to open and found her dressed in dark blue scrubs, her ID tag still hanging from her collar, as if she had just returned from the sterile confines of a hospital ward.

She holds out a glass of water. "You need to drink."

"I think that's the last thing I need to do, actually," I grumble as I force myself to swing my legs over the couch and sit up, but the pounding in my head is unforgiving; all I want to do is crawl under my covers and stay there.

"Water. You need to drink water," she insists, her voice soft but firm as she settles beside me, her presence a comforting weight against the turmoil raging within me. With a gentle persistence, she holds out the glass, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Reluctantly, I take a sip, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat. Yet, even as some of the worry fades from her eyes, a shadow of concern lingers .

"When are you going to get tired of checking up on me?" I ask, leaning back against the sofa, my head turned towards her. "I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Or maybe it puts me at ease knowing someone's looking after you since you won't look after yourself."

"Well, it's been a hard couple months, okay?" I reply, my words coming out slightly harsher than intended, but it's true. Ever since losing her, nothing's been the same.

"Believe me, I know. But I think it's time to retire the bottle, don't you think?" she argues, taking off her badge and tossing it on the coffee table with the half-drunk bottle of whiskey. "She wouldn't want you to grieve like this." She whispers while looking me dead in the eyes.

"I just want the pain to go away," I say as I turn my gaze to the ceiling as if it holds the answers to what I really need.

"Then let me help you," she insists, and I can feel her hand over mine, her warmth clashing with my chilled hand. I don't pull away. Instead, I sit there with my first physical contact with someone in months. I feel my insides stirring in ways I can't explain.

"And how do you expect to help me?" I scoff.

When she doesn't answer right away, I shift my eyes back to her. She reaches up to release her long cinnamon curls from the clip, holding them up all this time and letting them drape across her shoulders. Her icy blue eyes fill with desire when she bites down on her bottom lip. She shifts closer to me until our knees are touching before she leans in close, her lips a breath away from mine. For a second, I decide against it, that it won't do any good, but at this point, I'll take anything, even if it means waking up with regret in the morning.

The second I close the space between us, grabbing the back of her head and pulling her towards me, I can taste the faint presence of peppermint on her lips, suddenly bringing the rest of my senses back to life. Her warm hands caress my face and wrap up in my hair as she deepens the kiss, sliding her tongue against mine, making my heart race so fast, it's almost foreign to me.

She swings one leg over me, straddling my lap before she gently grinds against my growing bulge. God, it's been so long. It's been even longer since I've heard the sweet moans only beautiful women can sing as she grinds a little faster, giving herself a bit of pleasure of her own. Whimpers turn to louder moans when I slide my hands up under her shirt, feeling the soft, smooth skin of her large breast, teasing her hard nipples between my fingers.

"You better take those off if you're going to do that with your hips," I say as I push her onto her back. Her hair falls around her face, softly wetting her lips with her tongue, looking up at me. "Yes sir- as you wish."

A little grin tugs at her lips as she lets me slide off her pants and her pink lace panties, lifting her hips at just the right moment to slide them to her ankles. I toss them across the room. Before she could pull her top over her head, I ripped it in urgency, desire and need. She was eagerly pulling it apart to release her large breast, teasing her hard nipples slowly between her fingers. My mouth waters, engulfing one then the other, sucking and teasing her. She moans my name while her fingers wrap around my hair before her hands tug at my shirt.

"I think we need to even the playing field," she exhales, catching her breath. I pull my shirt off, and her hands immediately start exploring every hard line and curve of my body before rubbing at my throbbing bulge. I can't help but push into her touch, wanting more.

"Let me take care of you," she says, pulling my pants down and pulling me back down on the couch, swinging her leg over my throbbing bulge. She teases the tip of my hard cock against her entrance, making slow circles with her hips, but nothing more. I find the thickness of her thighs and hips perfectly fit my hands as I latch on and grab her, urging her to go all the way down and swallow my cock hole into her wet pussy.

"Is this what you want?" she purrs.

"Fuck yes," I moan as fight the urge not to buck my hips up into her. "Make me forget."

A mischievous grin appears as she keeps teasing the tip of me with her wet pussy while her hand pumps up and down the length of me. I almost can't take it anymore, but finally, she starts to lower herself.

Just as I get to feel her from the inside…

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I wake with a startling jump when the construction begins just outside my window, the same construction that's been going on for weeks. The same one that I curse under my breath for pulling me out of a dream that numbed me better than any whiskey, no matter how short-lived it was.

But the guilt of having the dream itself soon kicks in. What does it say about me when I'm still grieving her but dreaming of sleeping with her best friend?