Page 3 of What's Left of Us

Standing to my full height, I stroke myself and step forward, lining myself up to her. I give her no warning before settling my dick between her legs and surging forward, getting a strangled moan of pleasure from her that reminds me all too well of our first time.

Except this time, it’s hard, rough, and brutal as her body welcomes me with the sound of her aroused mewls.

There’s no gentleness or comforting coos or praising kisses. We’re beyond that.

Not mine,a taunting voice in my head whispers in my ear.

I grab her hair and yank her up, keeping myself buried inside her as I walk us to the back deck just off the kitchen.

I don’t stop my assault on her pussy as I bend her over the back railing and grin as she clenches me. My hands squeeze her hips as the wood shakes with each thrust, feeling her coating both of us as we lose ourselves in the moment.

I shove two fingers into her mouth to quiet the noises she makes, leaning forward until my lips graze her ear. “Be quiet, or the neighbors will hear.”

Her teeth sink down, but not hard enough to break skin.

Georgia still loves this.

Even if she stopped loving me.

I look over my shoulder at the security camera above the back door and wink, knowing she still gets the footage through the app on her phone. I could have kicked her off of it by now, but I haven’t.

Once, I debated on bringing home somebody new just so she could witness it—hurt her like she hurt me—but I never did.

It’s always been her.

This.

Us.

When she does little to muzzle her noises, I move her one last time to the patio table, shoving her over the glass top and pressing her face against it to stifle the sounds as I build my release.

The sparks shooting down my spine as I jackknife forward tell me I’m close. I pump twice more before pulling out, stroking myself until every drop is painted across her lower back.

There’s a moment of primal satisfaction seeing myself dripping off her body before I use the hem of her dress to wipe myself off and tuck myself back into my pants.

Once upon a time, I would have gotten a towel, cleaned her off, told her I loved her, then pressed a kiss to her temple.

But that was before.

I drop her stained dress, leaving her bent over and catching her breath. Knowing she didn’t come. Knowing she was close.

She’s not my responsibility now.

“Now that’s over, pick up your shit and get the fuck out of my house.”

Shifting on my heel, I walk inside and hear, “Until the divorce is final, this house is still half mine, Linc.”

Linc.She’s the only person who calls me by that name.

I look over my shoulder, wondering what her motive for being here is. “Then do us both a favor and sign the goddamnpapers, Georgia. Put me out of my misery. I don’t have time for any more of your bullshit.”

There’s only a moment, the briefest second when her eyes flash the way they used to in the past when I hurt her feelings during an argument. But why are they dulled with sadness when she caused this to begin with?

“Just…” I pause, giving her one last look before shaking my head when I see that damn necklace hanging from her neck. Why hasn’t she taken it off? “Get out before you do more damage than you’ve already done. Go back to Luca.”

She gapes at me, then stands taller. It’s all mock confidence—as fake as the makeup on her face. Almost eight years. Nearly a fucking decade later, I finally understand that there was nothing ever real about Georgia Del Rossi.

Right before I close the door to the back deck in hopes she’ll let herself out, she says, “Don’t go tomorrow.”

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