Page 100 of Pretend You Love Me
I don’t move.
“Please Kip, I can’t feel this way any longer. I need to feel something different. Make me forget.”
She’s asking a lot considering how we parted. Of course, I want to be with her. I want nothing more than to be with her, but I know I can’t just be with her once.
I won’t think about that right now.
“Let’s go to bed,” I say, leading her down the hallway.
It’s different this time. I take my time. I want her to feel how much I’ve missed her. I want her to feel how much she means to me. I savor every moment, exploring her body, touching every part of her. I try not to think what any of this means - if it means anything at all. When I bury myself inside her, I know I’m home. We’re both home.
After we finish, I don’t pull out. Her eyes are closed, and a tear escapes out the side. I brush it away.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, eyes still closed. Another tear falls.
I lean forward and kiss it. Her body starts to shake. I can feel it everywhere. I start to pull out.
“No, don't.” She grabs my arms, her fingers digging into my skin. “Please. Just stay.”
I lean forward and kiss her forehead and both of her cheeks. I’ll stay here forever if she needs.
The next morning, I wake up before she does. She’s sleeping on my chest. We’re both naked. Her skin feels so good against mine. I can’t imagine waking up any other way again. When she starts to stir, I kiss the top of her head.
“Want me to get you breakfast?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“No?” I’m surprised. I’m starving.
“I just want you.” She presses her lips to mine, and we sink under together. The only time we leave the bed the entire day is to take a shower together where she bends over and begs me to take her from behind.
We don’t eat. We don’t talk to anyone. We hardly talk to each other. We’re just communicating with our bodies. Nothing more.
The sun is setting. “I think I’m dehydrated,” I whisper.
She laughs.
“Is it possible to fuck yourself to death?’
“Looks like we’re going to find out,” I reply.
She grins and shakes her head. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
She slips into a robe, and I pull on some pants.
“I have some leftovers,” I call.
She checks her phone. “I have like four hundred unanswered texts.”
She sets her phone down and sighs. “Leftovers sound great.”
I busy myself getting food together. She sits at the kitchen counter and starts answering texts. “My siblings are freaking out,” she mutters.
“Understandably.”
