Page 133 of What's Left of Us

“What are you doing?” I ask again, the pain thick in my tone. I keep my hands to myself even though hers trail down the sides of my arms and squeeze my biceps in exploration.

Her mouth closes the distance between us, her lips lightly carving a hot path over my jawline up to my ear and stopping at the lobe. “Saying goodbye,” she answers, her warm breath letting a sharp one escape me.

The words go straight to my chest, but I don’t have time to let them sink in before her mouth is on mine and her hands are pulling me on top of her onto the back seat.

I’m not sure how I manage to close the door behind me, but the next thing I know, I’m wrapped around the warmth and scent of Georgia Del Rossi. And when I press my nose into the top of her head, I smell something familiar.

My shampoo.

I move my mouth over hers, our lips battling for dominance.

There’s barely any room, but we make do with what we have.

Because we are good at this.

Always have been.

Probably always will be.

But that doesn’t matter.

One second, my jeans are on, the next, they’re halfway down my hips, and my boxer briefs are with them. My erection springs free, and I groan when Georgia’s cold palm wraps around it and strokes.

There’s a lot I want to do to the girl underneath me, but there’s no room or time.

Georgia must know that too, because she wiggles out of her panties, wraps her arms around my arms and her legs around my waist, and brings my mouth down to her.

She says, “Fuck me,” against my lips, arching her back up until my cock is nudging her entrance.

I know the moment I inch my tip inside of her that it’ll be for the last time, so I savor every second.

Every thrust of my hips.

Every drawn-out moan.

Every whispered sigh.

I take it all.

Put it to memory.

Because she’s rewriting our ending.

After tonight, this moment is what’s left of us.

Two imperfect people.

Two skilled liars.

Her nails scrape down my clothed back, but the pressure brings me closer to the edge. She meets my hips every single time, her legs clenching around me as her mouth forms an O that I stare at as my pumps shake the truck cab.

I lift myself up using my hands as I find my release, watching as she breaks apart with me, but the weight is too much for my arm.

The pain I felt before becomes tenfold, and I nearly crush her when it gives out under me.

“Lincoln?” she asks in concern as I pull out of her.

I hiss when her fingers go to the injury covered by the plaid shirt. She’s never seen it because I’ve never allowed her to.

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