“Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?”
She’s stretched out beside him, arms laid above her head and her wrists crossed, just as he’d positioned them. Her breathing is still erratic and her bright hair tossed across the pillow like a banner.
As his words echo in the quiet room, she pulls the sheet up to cover her breasts, rolling onto her side to face him.
“I hope you’re not about to tell me it wasn’t good for you.”
Her acid tone makes his newly emptied balls shrivel, but he supposes he deserves it. It’s not very good form to blurt out the first overtures to a break-up while his come is still dripping out of her.
“I mean, we need to talk,” he ventures, fidgeting.
She studies him for a moment. Then she tosses back the sheet and manoeuvres upright. He tries not to ogle her as she moves around his bedroom collecting the pieces of her uniform. Her movements are lithe, fluid, economical, and she’s naked – fine-boned, narrow-hipped, surprisingly full breasts. His cock twitches – a Pavlovian response, even as drained as he is.
She’s fully dressed before she turns to look down at him, still fixing her hair as she speaks.
“We don’t need to talk,” she says around a mouthful of hairpins. “Either of us can call it off anytime, no questions asked. That was always the deal.”
“I know, but –”
She cuts him off with a raised hand. “Computer, are there any crew in the vicinity of Lieutenant Paris’ quarters?”
She turns to leave without another word.
“Wait,” he calls, “Cap- … Kathryn,” but it’s too late. She’s gone.
Groaning, Tom flops back onto the crumpled sheets, surrounded by the heady aroma of sex and her.
He probably could have handled that better.