All her defenses fall to the side and she moans, giving me everything before I even have the chance to take it from her.
“You can’t just leave like that,” she whispers the words against my lips.
In response, I hook my fingers in her shirt and pull, causing tiny little pink buttons to pitter-patter at our feet.
“Maverick.” Her back arches. Her knees weaken.
“I’m fucking sorry,” I tell her and mean it like I’ve meant nothing before. It’s the truth. I am sorry. So very sorry. Not just for what I’ve done in the past, but for all the ways I’ll fuck up her future for as long as I’m a part of it. And even after.
I bite down on her lip, leaving my mark on top of all the marks she’s been sinking into her lips while panicked about where I was. As she moans into my mouth, I dip my fingers even deeper, covering them in her warmth, and moistening her up real good before flipping her around and bending her over.
I don’t need to see the innocence in her eyes as I lose myself inside of her. And I don’t need to see her face to know just what she looks like. As unlikely as something like this should be, Bethany has managed to imprint herself in ways that are inerasable.
Because I’m selfish, I’m going to make sure that even if she forgets what it’s like to want me, she’ll never forget how good I could make her feel.
Unbuckling my pants and ushering them down, I free my cock from its restraints. My hands are steadied around Bethany’s lips as I hold onto my control and slowly work my way inside of her. Her pussy parts, keen on accommodating me, despite her tightness. It’s just as slowly as I ease my way in that I ease my way out. My cock glistens with evidence of her arousal as I pull back.
“Maverick,” she whispers, my name a prayer on her lips.
When all is said and done, I’m gonna miss her. That much is clear.
“Beth,” I grunt back, and keep one hand gripping her hip while I fist a lockful of her hair in the other.
Her legs tremble a little and she presses her palms against the wall in front of her, searching for stability. It’s not a bad decision. As soon as her hands slap against the wall, I take and I take and give back tenfold.
In no time, I’ve reduced Beth to the most beautiful mess of moans and screams. It’s almost surprising that I’m not singing like a little bitch because this…is…heaven. Too much heaven. Too real, too raw, too pure, too perfect.
Beth jerks back, intentional or not, I haven’t a clue. But that is exactly what pushes me over the edge, filling her to the brim with the warmth of my cum.
When I pull out of her, she doesn’t even try to fake strength. She collapses in a puddle on the floor, breathless and glowing. I scoop her into my arms and, for a moment, contemplate carrying her back to her own room. But this conversation isn’t done. In fact, it hasn’t even started yet. I at least owe it to her to answer some of the questions she has and so I lay her on my bed.
Her eyes are slightly hooded when she looks up at me, but that doesn’t stop her from putting weight behind her words.
“Where were you, Maverick?”
The force of her words make me feel like nothing more than a small child, uncertain of how to handle a scolding.
“A lot of places,” I say and then, “you cooked. We should eat.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I am,” I admit. “And we’ll talk, but…”
“You’re covered in blood.”
“I am,” I say again. “And we’ll talk, but…”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sits up rim-rod straight. “Your face is bruised. Your lip is busted and by morning you’ll have a big fucking blue ring around your eye. You can’t just waltz in here, fuck me and pretend that everything is fine.”
Blowing out a breath, I take a seat beside her on the bed. “Everything is not fine,” I tell her. “And maybe nothing will ever be fine, but before I willingly walk my way into the darkness, can I just enjoy the food you cooked and pretend for a moment that I didn’t royally fuck tonight up?”
I’m pretty sure she has tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t meet my gaze for long enough that I’m able to swear it as a fact.
“Fine,” she says and pulls a blanket from the bed, covering herself before she stomps her feet all the way to the dining room. The one that no one has ever used. The one I’d never had plans on using.
Home, I think. Despite the fact that I love being able to know what that feels like, I hate it too. You can’t miss the things you’ve never had. But now that I do have it, I know exactly what I’ll be missing once it’s gone.
I sit at one end of the table and Beth sits at the other, occupying the only chair that’s not at the opposite end of the room. As odd as I find it, I don’t ask her what’s with the arrangement. Instead, I pluck one of the oversized spoons from the middle and start dishing chicken and rice and broccoli onto my plate. Beth doesn’t follow my lead. Instead, she sits, staring daggers into me. If I didn’t know that I was in deep fucking waters with her before, I sure as shit know it now.
Sighing, I lift my plate, settling it in the palm of one hand as I use the other to drag a chair over to her. Not just because I miss her closeness. But also because I feel like an ant under her gaze.
I pick up the spoon again and put a decent helping onto her own plate before holding a fork up to her. She grabs it and holds onto it the way one holds onto a weapon, defensive. The sight of her almost makes me laugh.
“Eat,” I tell her. “Or stab my eye out. The choice is up to you, but please, do something, anything other than staring into the spot I just left.”
“You loved your mother. You still love her. That tells me there’s no way you could have done what you think you did.”
“I don’t remember my mother, Beth. And maybe what I’m feeling isn’t love, but guilt.”
She swallows and her entire face contorts as though she forced shards of glass down her throat. When she reaches out to touch me, her hands shake with what I’m afraid is disappointment. And she gets to feel that. She honestly does. Beth knew my mother and knew that a woman like that should have been granted more time on this earth than scum like me.
I shovel food into my mouth and chew quickly. It’s obvious that Beth will continue this conversation whether I’m ready to have it or not. And when she gets to the tough part, regret will push itself to the forefront until I feel like I’m chewing ash.
“Guilt is what you should feel for leaving the way you did. Guilt is what you should feel for coming home looking like that and refusing to fucking tell me where you’ve been or what the hell happened to you. Guilt is not what you feel when you’re not fucking responsible, Maverick. Hurt, yes. Pain, yes. Grief, absolutely.”
She’s wrong.
So very wrong.
I don’t know which conversation to tackle first. One the one hand, I want to tell her about my mother. Tell her what happened. Pull back the curtain and allow her to see that yes, I am every bit the monster she first thought me to be. That conversation would end it all. I know Beth and I know that once I really open up to her, she won’t give a damn about where I’ve been tonight or why my face is all bruised up. Maybe it’s a cop out, but it’s still no easier than the alternative.