Page 135 of The Plus One Contract

He pounds into me with a brutal rhythm, forehead pressed to mine, panting into my mouth, swallowing my gasps.

He doesn’t speak, and I can’t form a coherent sentence. We just breathe against each other, letting the friction obliterate the truth that, in a few hours, he’ll be on a plane.

Tears prick at my eyes, and I hate it, hate that I’m so close to falling apart. My body is drowning in pleasure, tension coiling tight in my belly.

It hurts, too, this knowledge that we’re fucking each other goodbye.

He groans, rolling his hips, thrusting deeper, hitting a spot that sparks another wave of pleasure that robs me of breath. I’m close. Too close. Everything is too intense—the scrape of his suit, the rough push of him inside me, the raw expression on his face as he teeters on the edge.

I can’t do this. Not when I already know how it ends, not when I feel the heartbreak thrumming in my chest. I grit my teeth, blinking back tears, but I can’t stop the orgasm building. My toes curl, fingers clinging to his shoulders as I snap, body clenching around him in a dizzying rush of pleasure that steals my voice. I let out a broken sob, an orgasm and heartbreak colliding in one.

Nathan curses, stuttering into one last thrust as he finds his own release. His hands bruise my hips as he shudders, groaning my name, face twisted in a mixture of agony and bliss. For a second, we freeze, sweaty and panting, the air thick with sex and the ache of goodbye.

He breathes my name softly, like he wants to say something else, something big, and that’s when I know I can’t take it. I can’t hear whatever might leave his mouth. I can’t hear an apology, a regret, a plea, anything. It’ll break me.

So I do the only thing I can.

I pull the ripcord.

The safe word.

My voice trembles with unshed tears as I force the single, final word: “Blackjack.”

He goes still. We stay locked together for a single beat until he finally releases me, sliding out, lowering my feet to the floor with a mechanical stiffness. My knees wobble, my entire body drained and shaking, but I manage to stand.

He stares at me for a moment before he dips his chin. It’s a wordless acknowledgment that I’m calling the end, that this scene is over.

He sets me carefully aside, gathers his bag, and without a single look back, walks out the door.

The click of it shutting behind him is deafening.

I can’t move or breathe as tears finally spill over. My soul feels hollow, like something precious has been ripped away, and I have no right to chase it.

Because this was never supposed to be real, and yet it feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.

Forty-Nine

Nathan

I’m furious at everything—the damn world, the shrink-wrapped illusions I keep feeding myself, the knot in my chest that won’t loosen. Mostly, I’m furious at myself for letting Sienna slip under my skin, for letting her see me in ways I swore nobody would again because now I’m driving away from that resort, from her, and every mile I put between us feels like a knife twisting deeper.

I take the highway out of town, ignoring the scenic ocean views.

My flight leaves for Chicago in a few hours, but there’s something I need to do first, something that’s been clawing at me since the moment Sienna’s face crumpled and I left her anyway.

By the time I pull up to my mother’s place, the midday sun has climbed high and hot, scorching the roof of my car as I slam the door.

The front door sticks when I push it open, warping from neglect. Inside, the reek of stale cigarettes and day-old booze curls my lip. My stomach flips with the memory of the time I was here. Why do I ever think it’ll be different?

I stride through the living room, stepping over half-crushed beer cans, paint chipping off the walls. She’s slumped on the couch, half-lucid, her hair knotted at the nape, her eyes unfocused. She’s more sober than last time, but that’s not saying much. She notices me, sits up, and rubs her face like she’s trying to force herself to look presentable.

“Back so soon?” she mutters, voice scratchy. “Thought you were done with me.”

Anger flares up my spine, but I bury it under a mask of composure.

“I am,” I say curtly, moving to the armchair across from her. I drop my keys on a table.

She sits up, sinking into the couch cushions.

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