She is an instrument, you have to remind yourself. A tool, nothing more and nothing less, to be used - whenever, wherever and however - at your discretion. Now?
Her purpose is to leave.
It takes you fifteen minutes longer to get dressed. One of the harder lessons you’ve learned, to not only create an image, but an image created for their liking. Who you are must be contained, locked away in a tight, thick box.
Only she’s seen the real you. And you know exactly how to make her forget.
So you dress for her. It’s harder than you care to admit. In the end, you choose a simple and casual style - sneakers, jeans, the sweater she bought for you back then because she said it was something she’d wear.
It’s a three hour drive from the Hampton’s. Too long. Too much time with just you, your thoughts, and a plan that’s taken years to finally come to fruition. In the car, you reflect with all the time you have, time to think about things like consequences, repercussions. Collateral damage was always to be expected, but you never planned for that damage to involve innocents. Jack was never supposed to get hurt. And Charlotte..
It would all be so easy to blame *her*. She was never supposed to come back to the Hamptons. She was supposed to leave far earlier than she ever did. Yes, it would all be so easy. Except, you’ve never been one to take the easy route. This plan was never about being easy. And that stinging sensation, the one that’s wormed it’s way through the tiny cracks of that thick box locked around your heart, you know it’s guilt.
And it’s killing you. Little by little, piece by tiny piece.
You’ve tracked her down to a cheap motel a mile from the airport. Because she never leaves when she’s supposed to. She never does anything like she’s supposed to. Your relationship has always been about appeasing her random acts of defiance.
She opens the door, all watering eyes and trembling lower lip.
“I..” You stammer because this is suddenly harder than you realize and you don’t understand why. “I didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye.”
“I thought you never say goodbye.” There’s an empty smirk on her lips, it contrasts with the pain, the relief in her eyes.
You smirk back. “I don’t.”
She crashes into you, arms tight around your waist. You return her embrace. Because that’s part of the plan. There’s always a plan. She responds like you expect her to. With breath, warm and wet, against your neck, the flutter in her stomach that reverberates into you. When she pulls back so your eyes can meet, there’s that moment, where the two of you are just staring back at each other. You know she can’t read your mind but there’s still that part of you that wonders. Like a web made by dozens of spiders, there are a million different lines to cross. And you see all the possibilities. Because this could end, right here, right now, all you have to do is just say goodbye. You can say goodbye and walk away. Let her live her life, while you destroy others. Instead..
You kiss her.
She whimpers into your mouth as she swirl your tongue in hers. Her fingers thread into your hair as you tighten your arms around her waist, kicking the door closed with a foot. Another line crossed. Another part of the plan. Except the part that isn’t, the part of you that likes the feel of her body against yours, the way her heart hammers against your chest, the way she whimpers and moans as you possess her mouth.
She flops backwards onto the bed. Gazes up at you all, shy and coquettish. Like you’re the one seducing her. You both have your games. She’s playing hers. You’re playing yours. Only one of you knows all the rules.
Quickly, you peel out of your clothes. Then you’re on the bed, body pressed flush against hers. Mouths open, you kiss like you’re trying to steal her breath. She’s moaning, writhing beneath you. Fingertips trail up your back and you shudder at the feel of each pad as it glides over the ridges of your spine. Because she knows you so well. Knows it’s the little things that count. And when your lips part, she tilts her head, arches her neck in offering as she drapes her thigh over your hip, digs her nails into the small of your back.
She offers. You take. And it’s not long before you’re kissing your way down, suckling perfect nipples on full breasts, lathing tongue on smooth, tight stomach. Then you’re there, her heels anchoring into the mattress as you pull her open with your fingers. Something twitches hard and deep between your legs. This is all part of the game, part of the plan, but, right here, right now, with her spread open before you, the scent of her sex filling your lungs, you can’t deny how much you want this.
She tilts her head up to watch as you lower yours. You plunge your tongue, quick, hard and deep, and the bed jiggles as she slams her head back, her keening wail piercing your ears. You tongue-fuck her like this is supposed to be the last time, with everything you are. It’s not long before her fingers are threading in your hair, nails scraping against your scalp as she tries to make it last, tries to hold on to you just a little longer. But, you like it when she comes. You like making her come. So you withdraw your tongue, replace it with your fingers as your lips draw around her clit. And then she’s all cat on a hot tin roof wailing and writhing. Because no one knows her like you do, no one can *do* to her what you do.
She finally comes, and it takes everything you have to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head from the sounds she makes. The way she clenches and undulates beneath you. And you wring her dry, take every orgasm, milk her for every shiver and shudder, until she’s nothing but a boneless heap, panting and sweating on the cheap motel bed.
She hasn’t even recovered and, already, you’re sliding the harness onto her hips, pulling the straps and buckles tight before you’re straddling her, positioning yourself where *you* want, no, need to be. Her eyes open, all glazed and smoky. Then, her hands are on the swell of your hips, her fingers gripping tight right before she pulls you down as she thrusts her hips upwards.
No matter how hard you try, how good you’ve become at faking it, the howl that releases from your lips is anything but rehearsed. She was the one that introduced the two of you to this, one of her many gifts. It’s not long before the both of you find your rhythm, hard and fast, almost brutal, as you ride her and she pistons her hips into you. Fingers gripping a death grip on the headboard as it smacks hard against the wall, as you yelp with every push of your combined hips.
Her hand is at the small of your back and, though you know it’s coming, it still takes you by surprise. She flips the two of you over. Now, it’s just her driving into you. Hips draped over her thighs, nails digging into her back, you take everything she gives, push her to give it to you harder, faster, deeper. Like you’re exorcising some demon.
Maybe you are.
She looks down at you. With that smoky, heated gaze of hers that twists your insides just a little more. Her hand is at your neck, and you arch into her touch as her fingers tighten. You shouldn’t trust her. Not with this. But you do. She’s the only one who knows this side to you.
She’s the only one who can do it right.
Fingers tightening as she rolls her hips, you feel yourself sinking into oblivion. The blood pounds against your eardrums, the blackness pools, oily and slick, around the edges of your vision. Just when you reach the edges of unconsciousness, she releases her grip.
You come. Hard.
She chuckles into your ear as you suck in enough breath to produce something like a moan.
And then there’s that moment, where you’re still recovering, still shuddering and clenching, when she holds herself still. The part you hate the most because she’s so fucking tender and sweet. And it reminds you of how differently things could have been. Before certain choices outside your control were made. Before the choices in your control were made.
Fingertips grazing your forehead, lips gently pressing to the corner of your mouth, you keep your eyes closed for just a little longer. Just a little, to make the moment last.
Because, you know, this moment will end.
“Are you sure..” she whispers in your ear as she begins to slowly roll her hips. “You can say goodbye to this?”
You open your eyes. There’s an almost smile on your lips, as you trail your fingers down her back then cup her ass. “When does your plane leave?”
“That’s enough time.”
It’s not. Not really. But the two of you make the time between you last. Until neither of you have the strength to do nothing but snuggle against each other, like those cold, lonely nights long ago when it was just you, her, a too small jail cell.
She’s on her side, head propped up with one hand while the backs of her knuckles gently brush against your cheek. Eventually, you open your eyes, tilt your head towards hers.
“You..” she stammers, eyes twitching with uncertainty. “You could come with me, you know.”
Chuckling, you bring your hand to her cheek, brush your thumb across her lips. For all of her strengths, she’s always been the weak one. “You know I can’t.”
“I could stay.”
You smile, lift your head to bring your lips to hers. “You know you can’t.”
She darts her eyes away. Of all the lies you’ve told, sometimes it’s the truths that work best.
The uncertainty is still in her eyes. She gave you the keys to her kingdom, proverbially and literally, so she could find herself, start anew, yet she’s the one who’s still lost. The one who still looks to you to fix her. “What about..” she stammers, curling the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. A move, calculated or unrehearsed, you still find completely adorable. “What about when it’s all over?”
When it’s all over. Of all your plans, you’ve never actually thought that far. There was never time to think about an after. You go back on what you know, what you’ve been taught - the best lies are the ones wrapped in truth. You reach up, tuck a lock her hair behind an ear. “I did make you a promise, right?”
Your words light up her entire face. “No matter what, you’ll find me..”
“And we’ll be together. Forever,” you finish, the lie falling perfectly from your lips.
Her eyes begin to water as she crashes your lips together, as your skin warms from her increasingly urgent touch. She is the only one who’s seen your true face. The only one who’s ever truly known the real you.
Which makes her dangerous.
Two sides of the same coin. She is you. You are her. She knows you more than anyone else. Yet, she has no idea how weak she makes you.
“Tell me..” she whispers, as her lips trail between the valley of your breasts. As your hands grip her shoulder, and your body arches as you push her lower. “Tell me you love me.”
So you do what you’ve learned, what you’ve been taught. And you know..
The best lies are always the ones wrapped in truth.
“I love you.”