36. The Last Night
36
THE LAST NIGHT
Nate
Hunter, braced on his palms, gazes at me in dirty wonder. He lowers his chest closer to mine while he pushes inside me.
I tense for a second, then breathe out. “You got it,” I say, urging him on. I wrap my hands around his neck. There’s hardly any space between us, and I want it like this.
Want him just like this.
Close to me.
My hands rake his hair as he sinks slowly, inch by lubed inch, into me.
Then, he’s there, all the way in, and I take a few seconds to adjust to the feel.
“You good?” he asks.
“So good,” I say. He takes it nice and slow and deep, the way I told him I like it. It’s excruciatingly good. Then it’s even better when his hands slide around my shoulders, and he brings me closer.
This is why I like to switch. I want the intimacy. I want the give and take. With Hunter, we are givers and takers together.
After a few long pumps, he raises his face. “Want to kiss you,” he rasps out.
“Do it,” I command.
He drops his lips to mine, and it’s a whole new kind of kiss. It’s tender and hungry. Dirty but needy.
It’s the kind of kiss you can’t give up, and this is the kind of sex I want to have again and again. Hot, intimate, passionate sex.
With him.
I’m overwhelmed by the heat of our bodies and the drumbeat of my heart. By the intensity of this unexpected connection we’ve built in the last week. By the whirlwind of lust and emotions.
Most of all, by the way we are with each other. We support, we uplift, we laugh, and we care.
I want it all with him, but I can’t have it. Instead, I give in to the sensations whipping through me, building in a mad frenzy. “I’m close,” I groan, slipping a hand between our chests, angling for some room.
“Me too,” he murmurs, then pushes up on his palms as I get my hand down to my dick.
I’m so far gone now. I stroke hard and fast, and my orgasm crashes into me at full speed. It’s not waiting for anything. But he’s not waiting either. He growls my name in the sexiest, most carnal voice I’ve ever heard.
And we come together.
Hunter collapses onto me, peppering my neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “That was…you are…I’m just soooo…”
“Me too,” I murmur, looping my hands around him, holding on tight. “It’s the same for me.”
Why can’t he live closer? Why can’t I work in London somehow? Why can’t we have a chance for more than a week?
But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.
That’s just how it goes.
I don’t want to think about tomorrow morning, when he leaves this room, or Sunday night, when I leave the country.
In the morning, we don’t make a big deal of goodbye. We don’t linger in sad farewells or drawn-out departures. This was always supposed to be a week—nothing more, nothing less.
Hunter simply walks away, his bag slung over his shoulder. And I pretend it doesn’t feel like a part of me is leaving too.