Page 59 of Because of Me

Amira shudders underneath me, her inner walls fluttering with her orgasm, pulling me in until I’m lost in my own release. I fill her with my cum, trying and failing not to think about how she’s the first person I’ve ever done that with. Claiming her even though I have no right to.

As our bodies begin to relax, and with my cock still buried deep in her pussy, I kiss my way back to her mouth.

“Is this fake?” I murmur, half to her, half to myself, not expecting a response.

Her legs hold me in place and she tangles her fingers in the hair on the nape of my neck. “No,” she whispers.

I don’t want to move, don’t want to let this perfect moment end. Amira keeps her hold on me, rolling us to the side. My dick slips as we move, but she adjusts her waist so I’m still nestled inside her.

“Don’t go,” she says as she lets her head fall to my chest. “For tonight, please stay.”

I kiss the top of her head. “Cupcake, I’ll be wherever you need me. Always.”

NOAH

Everything hurts when I stir awake. My limbs, my head, my fucking heart. Last night was everything Amira and I could have been and more, but it was also goodbye.

We both knew it, although neither of us was willing to bring it up.

Amira’s eyes turned distant as my cock softened inside her. She was silent as I awkwardly reached for the box of tissues before sliding out. We avoided looking at one another as we cleaned up. We said nothing as we crawled back into bed.

I listened as her breaths turned slow and heavy, watched as her eyelids began to flicker with her dreams. I kissed her forehead while she slept, then rolled over as I waited for my own sleep to take me.

It came in brief moments, always ending in the same painful thought of me heading down the stairs with my suitcase packed.

I know what today will bring. And I hate it.

Before Amira wakes, I slink out from under her arm. Even now, in her sleep she moves towards me. I want to tell myself it’s only because I take up so much space in the bed, but there’s still a dying flicker of hope it’s something more. That all this is a giant pothole in the road that still leads tous.

After pulling on a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt, I tiptoe from the room. Amira sighs in her sleep at the sound of the bedroom door opening but doesn’t wake when I pull it shut behind me.

Kitch jumps down from her tree, circling my feet like a piranha waiting for meat. I fill her water and serve her tinned breakfast. She purrs in thanks, and as I turn back to the kitchen I find Ella spread on the couch, half her limbs hanging to the floor. A faded black bucket is on its side by her arm, and an upside-down bowl sits beside a half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table. No wonder they were home late.

I tip on my heels, unsure whether I should fix the blanket bunched at her waist, try to move her to the bed, or just leave her be. Stepping closer, I startle when she groans and rolls towards the back of the couch. Her throat sounds gravelly, and she pulls her knees into her stomach with a shaky inhale. She sounds like she might vomit if I try to move her, so I count that choice out.

The blanket is tangled in her legs, and despite my cautious attempts, I can’t free it. Leaving her as is will have to do.

Of course, the coffee machine sounds a thousand times louder than usual as it grumbles away grinding coffee. And when the microwave beeps to inform me the milk is warm I cringe, hoping it didn’t wake Ella.

When all the noise I’m making in the kitchen is over, the apartment is silent again. The faintest sounds of Ella breathing blur into the subtle scratches as Kitch stretches out on top of the cat tree. Leaving the two travel mugs of steaming coffee on the bench, I head back to the bedroom to wake Amira.

It feels harsh, breaking her seemingly peaceful sleep, but the gnawing pit of dread won’t go away. I need to get this over and done with. Pull the metaphorical Band-Aid off so I can pack up my things and be gone before dinner.

Not that I’ll eat. The hollowness in my stomach will only get worse once this has all been said and done, and eating when I’m this emotionally worked up and anxious has never gone down well. The coffee probably won’t help, but I need the wake-up call just as much as Amira probably will.

I don’t have to wake her, though. When I enter the room she’s sitting back against her pillows, scrolling on her phone. Hearing the door open, she drops it back onto the bedside table and begins to play with the edges of the blanket in her lap.

“We should …”

“I made coffee,” I say, knowing what she is going to say and not needing to hear it. Wedoneed to talk even if neither of us wants the end of the conversation. “I thought we could head down to the gardens. Go for a walk?”

Amira gulps and looks up at me. “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

With a nod, I back out. Her wanting me out of the room to get dressed is not a good sign. Not that any of the signs lately have been positive. I pace the hallway as I wait, twiddling my thumbs nervously until Amira emerges.

She’s swapped her tiny shorts for long black yoga pants that hug her hips and thighs. Her bright purple T-shirt is oversized across her shoulders but cuts off around her waist. As she reaches for her coffee cup it hikes up a fraction to reveal the thinnest strip of her golden skin. If nothing else comes from the time we spent together, I’m glad she was able to fall in love with herself again. She left a little piece of her father’s scrutiny behind, and I hope she’s proud of herself for it.

Although we both know the reason for our mid-morning walk, neither of us says a word as we trudge down the steps and out into the summer sun. We drink our coffees, peaceful just being in each other’s company until we’re deep into the gardens opposite the apartment building. The hustle and bustle of the main strip is barely audible this far down the path, the air filled with the warbling of magpies and buzzing of bees instead.

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