19. Cyaire #3
The shower steam clings to our skin, the air thick with heat and the scent of his soap, something woodsy and clean.
He doesn’t rush, even though we both know time is slipping away.
His fingers press inside me first, slow and deliberate, stretching me open.
My thighs tremble, my nails dig into his shoulders.
I whimper against his mouth and he swallows the sound like it’s something precious.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, his breath hot against my ear. I want to tell him the same, but the words dissolve into a broken moan when his thumb circles me just right, and my hips jerk helplessly against his hand.
Then he lifts me, his hands grip my thighs as he pins me against the cold tile.
The contrast makes me gasp, my back arches as the chill seeps into my skin, but he’s there, his body presses into mine, chasing away the cold with the heat of him.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and hold on like I can fuse us together if I just cling tight enough.
His dick slides against me, thick and heavy, and I whine, my fingers tangling in his damp hair.
“Jamie—” His name leaves my mouth like a plea, and he answers by guiding himself inside me in one smooth, deep thrust that steals my breath entirely.
The sound that tears from my throat is raw, my head thuds back against the tiles as he fills me completely. He stills for a second, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
“My sweet, sweet, Blue,” he groans, his voice strained, like he’s fighting to keep himself from shattering already.
Then he moves, his hips roll into mine with a rhythm that’s both punishing and worshipful, each thrust drags against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur at the edges.
He is everywhere, his hands grip my ass, his mouth on my neck, his dick buried deep.
It’s too much, it’s not enough. I never want it to end.
Our kisses never break. Not when his pace turns frantic, not when my nails rake down his back, not when I grind myself against his stomach, chasing the friction that sends sparks skittering up my spine.
His name falls from my lips in broken fragments, “Jamie, Jamie, please—” and then I cum, my body locks around him as pleasure crashes over me in waves, my release spills between us, hot and messy. He swallows my cries with his mouth, his own breaths ragged as he chases his own climax.
“Cyaire, baby, I—” His voice cracks, and then he’s there, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside me, his body shudders against mine, his grip on me so tight it’s almost painful.
The aftermath should be easy. It should be the quiet slide into satisfaction, the lazy kisses, the shared smiles.
The thought that this is the last time though, for weeks, for months, who the hell knows, hits me like a physical blow.
I press my face into the crook of his neck, my fingers digging into his skin, and for a second, I let myself pretend.
Pretend that the water isn’t washing away the evidence of us.
Pretend that the clock isn’t ticking. Pretend that I’m not leaving.
He doesn’t let go, even when the water runs cold.
His arms stay locked around me, his hands stroking slow, soothing patterns up and down my back.
The spray rinses over us, carrying away the salt of my tears, and if he notices, he doesn’t say a word.
He just holds me tighter, his lips pressing to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, anywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to brand me with his touch.
By the time we dress and make our way downstairs, the silence between us feels less strained, though the weight of the coming evening never leaves.
Jamie cooks lunch, chicken breasts, brown rice, and broccoli, easing himself back into the disciplined diet he follows once training camp approaches.
The familiar routine should make the meal feel ordinary, yet I barely taste anything as I move the food around my plate and watch him eat across from me.
“You need to eat,” he says after catching me push the same piece of broccoli through the rice for the third time.
“I’m trying,” I say with a forced smile.
His gaze holds mine for a moment before he reaches across the table and turns my hand over beneath his. “I know.”
I manage several more bites for him, though the tightness in my throat makes each one difficult to swallow.
After lunch, Jamie takes me upstairs and pulls me into bed. I don’t intend to sleep and neither does he. I only want to lie beside him for a while, to listen to his heartbeat and feel the weight of his arm around my waist while there is still time.
I rest my head against his chest, and his fingers move slowly through the short curls at the back of my head. The steady rhythm of his breathing begins to loosen the tension that has lived inside me since Jasper appeared outside the arena.
“We should set an alarm,” I murmur.
“I did,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head.
I close my eyes and when I open them again, the bedroom is washed in the fading amber light of sunset.
For several seconds, I don’t understand why panic is clawing through my chest. Then I see the clock on the nightstand and realize how many hours have disappeared while we slept.
“Jamie,” I say in alarm.
“I see it.” He tightens his arms around me before I can move, holding me against him for one final minute neither of us can afford.
“I didn’t mean to sleep that long,” I say, hurt and disappointed at myself for the rest I know I needed.
“Neither did I,” he replies.
“We wasted half the day,” I say, turning in his hold to face him.
“No.” His voice remains soft, though the certainty in it stops my protest. “We spent it together.”
The distinction shouldn’t make me feel better, yet somehow it does. We stay there until the alarm he set for the evening finally sounds, forcing us apart.
Dinner comes too quickly. I sit on the kitchen counter while Jamie moves between the stove and the island, preparing salmon and vegetables because cooking gives his hands something to do.
Every few minutes, he steps between my knees and kisses me, sometimes briefly, sometimes long enough that I forget about the pan on the stove until he pulls away and returns to it.
I watch him move through the kitchen with the ease of someone who belongs in this space, and the realization that I won’t be here tomorrow, has the damn tears returning in full force.
I wipe them away quickly, when he turns, jumping from the counter to sit on the stool as he places a plate in front of me. It all looks delicious, but I can barely eat.
Jamie notices, though he doesn’t comment this time. He just rests his hand on my thigh in silent support while I force down enough food to keep him from worrying.
By the time the sky outside the windows turns fully dark, my suitcase is waiting near the front door.
Cameron texts to say he is outside.
Jamie carries my luggage to the SUV before I can stop him. I follow him down the path, watching the muscles in his back move beneath his shirt as he lifts the suitcase into the cargo area and closes the door.