I suck a breath from my cigarette, flicking ash on the drawers. “I fucking hate you,” I tell him with an exhale.
He says nothing. He simply watches me as I push away from the drawers and wander to the mirrors. I slide the wardrobe doors open and reveal rows upon rows of fresh clothes. Mostly women’s.
Jackpot. I mean, who gets to choose the clothes they will die in?
Cigarette pinched between my loose lips, I reach behind my back and wrestle down the zip. I fumble out of the dress, letting it spill to the floor around my feet before I start to pick through the selection.
Cliff’s eyes sear my skin. I can feel his gaze roam all over my body, much the same way I studied him, but perhaps with a little more heat.
As I rub the material of a blouse between my fingertips, I wonder aloud, “Where are we?”
For a quiet heartbeat, I think he isn’t going to answer me, but then his tired, gravelly voice comes out from the bed, “Coquelles.”
I lift the cigarette to my dry, cracked lips but pause when I hear that word fall from his thick accent. Coquelles—the commune where the entrance to the Channel Tunnel is.
“How did we get here?” I probe before I suck the last of my cigarette dry. I let it fall to the floorboards before I twist my shoe on it to kill the embers. Wouldn’t it be nice to kill the other embers that haunt me.
“I carried you,” he tells me.
Frowning, I turn over my shoulder to look at him. He watches me with a blank, unreadable face. He gives nothing away.
My gaze cuts to the curtains. Beneath them, the two satchels have been discarded and, now that I think about it, there is no torch in sight.
I glance at him before turning back on the wardrobe, this time picking through black jeans. “Did you leave the torch behind?”
“Yes.”
In answer, I hum and pull out a pair of dark skinny jeans. I toss them over my shoulder, then move for the tops. I settle on a long-sleeved grey top, nothing exceptional, but warm enough for the chills I’ll be suffering from later. I want to die comfortably, not pretty.
Cliff still watches me as I walk the clothes to the bed. I drop them onto the mattress before my gaze slides to the drawers. Might be clean underwear in there. But before I can make for the drawers, Cliff shifts on the bed.
Slowly, he moves for me, leaning onto his knees, his hands outstretching for my waist. His touch is gentle as it lands on my prickling skin. His eyes don’t break away from mine as he guides me closer to him, forcing me onto the bed.
The glisten of his amber eyes holds a question—I know what he wants. I want it too, and what’s the harm? I’ll be dead soon anyway. At least this way, I can go out with a bang.
I’m sorry for that. Couldn’t help myself.
As if you needed any more proof that I’m too twisted for this world, or any world for that matter.
His hands slide over the length of my curves, passing over the loose sides of my underwear. Bringing himself to me, he pulls me closer until I’m tucked between his spread thighs. His hot mouth ghosts kisses over my tummy, prickling the flesh there.
His lips explore my body, travelling the length of my torso, up to my breasts.
My eyes flutter shut as his mouth reaches my breasts. Warmth from his palm rises up my side to the bra, and he peels back the lace.
My nipple hardens like a pebble before he takes it in his mouth.
A soft moan whispers from my parted lips as my head lolls back.
Experience has his tongue rolling over me, sending particular shudders running down my body to the heat pooling at my core.
I arch into him.
What a way to spend my final day.
I can pretend. I can pretend that we are us and he cares about me as much as his gentle touches and caresses would have me believing—if I were a fool.
I am many things, but a fool is not one of them.
Yet, I fade away into the moment and pretend we are lovers who adore and protect each other.
Abandoning my breast, he travels down my front until his back is curved and his mouth is ghosting over the waistline of my underwear. His fingers hook onto the sides and peel them off me until they fall to the floor.
Looking down at him, I watch as he grabs the meat of my thigh and hoists it up, draping it over his shoulder. He has my core at an odd, spread angle and, for a beat, he gazes at it.
A fierce blush blazes on my face, spreading all the way down to my chest.
Love me, I want to tell him.
Pretend with me, I ache to plea.
Lie to me.
Dropping my hands, I thread my fingers through his hair and guide him to me. My muscles seize as he wastes no more moments on marvelling and instead, latches his mouth onto my clit.
Wetness pools at my core.
His hands, strong and large, slide around to the curve of my bum, and he holds me in place. Rolling his tongue along my slit, he makes it feel like silk skimming over my skin, and a soft whisper of pleasure escapes me.
His tongue rolls around in circles, testing me, testing my boundaries. But I’m not interested in more games so I push harder against him, tensing my hooked leg to trap him and hope he gets the very obvious hint.
He does.
His mouth curls into a smile against me before he gets to work. His tongue is a spinner, and my bud is the point. Leaning my head back, my hands turn to fists in his hair, and I let the sparks start to rise up beneath my skin.
Husky breaths start to push out from me, heaving my chest.
Sweet suffering spears through me suddenly as he gives me a gentle suck, and that’s all I need for the waves to come crashing over me.
Standing up, spasms attack my body. I shudder and tremble against him.
Cliff tightens his hold on me, his arms coiling around the small of my back, and he lifts me up, his mouth never leaving my core.
My feet are suspended above the ground as I stay drowning in the chasm of sensations.
His licks turn into softer kisses planted around my core. I’m still so dazed that I’m only distantly aware of being moved. Holding me up, he twists us both around and drapes me over the mattress like I’m something precious, something to be careful with.
I start to stir, coming back to myself.
As he drapes himself over me, I look up at him, the harshness of my breaths surprising me. Lining himself up with me, he plants a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth. Instinctively, I mimic him and my mouth puckers—he stills against me.
It takes me a moment and a few blinks before it dawns on me. We might have kissed out of hate the first few times around, but he did explain to me what kissing means in his culture.
Lie to me.
Keep the pretence for me.
Fitted against me, he pushes the tip inside and a sudden swell hits my core. I spread my legs wider, allowing him to tuck snug against me.
It’s all he needs for his mouth to push against mine and, after a mere beat of hesitation, he kisses me. Trepidation slows his lips moving against mine; caution furrows his brows, but still, he kisses me softly.
He slides into my honey.
Pressing his hands into the mattress, he curves over me like a protective shield and moves slowly in and out of me. I wrap my legs around his tailbone.
Against my mouth, a groan rumbles through him, something restrained and animalistic, like a caged lion. He’s battling himself, wanting to pound into me, let his chains break free—but he forces his pace to stay steady and loving.
His lips part experimentally before his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I can taste myself on him. A small smile curls my mouth as I loop my arms around his neck and hold him closer.