“Oh! Oh . . .”
She was coming so hard she was shaking. Mick held on to her, held her tight, kissing her bruised breasts as she came. She kept thrusting her hips, sliding her clenching pussy up and down his hard shaft, her climax still skittering over her skin.
Before she was certain she was done, Mick flipped her on her back on the coffee table so fast she never saw it coming—the wood was hard and cool against her back—and in moments he’d rolled a condom over his cock. He held himself over her, and as she wrapped her legs around his waist he thrust into her.
“Mick!”
His cock was big, but she was wet enough to take him all at once. He surged into her, slid out, every motion driving pleasure deep and hard. He was kissing her breasts again, using lips and tongue, punctuated with small, nipping bites that only drove her pleasure higher.
He paused, gasping. “Allie . . . I’m going to come.”
“Yes. Do it. But kiss me, Mick. Just fucking kiss me.”
He lowered his head and crushed his lips to hers as he rammed into her. She held his face in her hands, needing to feel him, to feel connected in some way, even if it was just their two bodies, their hot, wet mouths, joined together.
He pulled back with a sharp groan, and she looked into his eyes as he started to come, hips jerking, gaze locked on hers. Something in his eyes looked lost in wonderment, making her heart twist in her chest. At that moment, she knew he was right there with her.
Right there.
He shivered all over, shook in her arms, that intense, wide gaze never leaving hers. Then he buried his face between her breasts once more as he caught his panting breath, his hands tangling in her hair.
They stayed there for several minutes before he pulled away, helped her sit up on the edge of the table.
“Bed?” he asked, still not quite all there after his orgasm.
She nodded. He drew her to her feet, and she followed him into the bedroom, where he helped tuck her in beneath the covers. He climbed in beside her, lying on his back. When she nudged his arm he opened it and invited her in. She laid her head on his chest and listened to him breathe. Waited for him to really wrap her in his arms. To kiss her again. But all he did was lie perfectly still in the darkened room. There was just enough light coming from the living room for her to see the silhouette of his eyelashes. His eyes were open—he wasn’t sleeping. But he was silent. Unmoving. As if she weren’t even there.
She’d needed to be with him, for him to be with her. Present. Engaged. Connected. But it hadn’t worked in the end, had it? Other than those brief moments when he was coming, when he looked into her eyes and saw her. Felt her. And now she felt even worse than she had when she’d arrived.
A slow tear made its way down her cheek, but she didn’t dare brush it away. She didn’t want him to know. She bit her lip to stifle any sound, forced herself to stop the crying.
How many tears had she cried over Mick Reid? How many times had he turned away from her? And yet she still kept after him.
It was beginning to be humiliating.
She couldn’t be the only one with all her cards in the game. And damn it, it wasn’t a game to her. It was her heart, a heart that had carried these wounds for far too long. She’d never been able to fall for another man—really fall, although she’d tried a few times—because Mick had always owned her heart.
He still fucking did. But maybe she was only helpless against it if she chose to be.
Hours passed while the same ideas whirled through her mind with the force of a tornado. When she checked the clock at five thirty in the morning, she still didn’t have the answers. But one thing she knew: continuing to do this—accepting Mick’s crappy behavior toward her—wasn’t getting her anywhere.
She needed distance to figure things out. To decide if she was willing to accept this from him or if she was stronger than that. And maybe only once she’d gone—gone of her own accord and not because Mick needed space—maybe then he’d realize what was at stake.
She listened for his breathing, wanting to make sure he was asleep. She couldn’t handle another conversation. He always managed to talk his way around her, or seduce her into forgetting what it was she wanted to talk about. The man was too clever for his own good—certainly for hers. She slipped quietly from the bed, found her clothes, her purse, and left the warmth of Mick’s body, his bed, behind. But she knew that warmth would never be anything but temporary if she didn’t go.
Have to go.
She wiped the tears away as she started her car, the engine a loud rumble in the still, early morning air.
The sun was rising as she headed home, the sky a wash of pink and gold. It was lovely. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
Like him.
She was tired of Mick breaking her heart. Maybe it was his turn.
She wanted to feel some satisfaction at the thought. But it was Mick, and she loved him. Knowing he might hurt when he woke up alone only made her own pain more wrenching.
It was still the right thing to do.
Sometimes, being right sucked.
* * *
MICK WOKE WITH a start. He reached for Allie but found only cool sheets next to him.
“What the hell?”
He ran a hand over his head, rubbed his eyes. Maybe she was in the bathroom? The kitchen?
He glanced at the clock as he got up. Seven in the morning. Dusky light shone from behind the curtains—another hazy spring day in New Orleans. It was probably already warm out there. Why did he feel chilled?
He found the bathroom door wide open, moved into the kitchen. It was empty.
“Allie?” he called, knowing there would be no answer.
He grabbed his sweats from the living room floor, pulled them on, then moved around the apartment looking for a note, then his cell phone. No voice mail, no texts. He went into his office and booted up his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk while he waited.
Maybe she was sick? But she would have left him some kind of message or even woken him up to tell him. Wouldn’t she?
He remembered in a small flash the look on her face when she’d shown up at his place last night. She’d looked . . . haunted. He damn well knew why. He just didn’t know what the hell to do about it. But now she was gone. She should at least have had the grace to tell him she was going. Not that he’d treated her any better all those years ago, in college, when he’d split in the middle of the night.
Tears sliding down her cheeks—he’d been too damn caught up to notice. Hell, he was still hard. After the hottest sex he’d ever had in his life. Hot because it was her. But he’d made her fucking cry! What kind of sick fuck was he?
Something in his chest tore, even as her warm body pressed against his, her arms winding tight around his neck. He swore he could see through the gaping hole that had opened in his chest to the darkness that lay underneath, a darkness he’d unleashed on Allie. Allie, of all people!
He held her tight, whispering to her—all the things he thought she might need to hear, feeling like he was flailing around, trying to find some way to make it right.
“Shh, Allie girl. It’s okay.”
Christ, what a liar he was.
“Mick . . . I just . . . I didn’t know. I had no idea this was . . .”
She cried harder, her hot tears falling onto his chest.
Nothing would make it right. Because he was all damn wrong.
Fuck.
He tried to shake it off.
Was this payback?
He deserved it—there was no arguing with that. But he’d have thought better of Allie.