I listened to the familiar pants of his breath as they went from jagged and wild to soft and even while we slowly recovered from the destructive encounter.

Eventually he spoke, "You didn't even look at the sunset.  You kept your head down the entire time." 

I shuddered.  The bastard's casual, almost amused tone got to me. 

His release had helped him get his temper in hand, which had not been the point.

"Get off of me," I snarled at him.

He didn't listen.  Instead he brushed my hair to the side and started kissing my neck, his lips tender, devastating, as they began to move down to my nape, then along my shoulder.

"Time's up, lover," I made my tremulous voice as hard as I could manage.  "I need to get back to my date." 

He didn't like that.  In fact, he stiffened and straightened, sliding out of me with a decisive swiftness that made me gasp.

Good.  His rage was back, which had been my intent.    

I wanted, expected, needed him to get off me then, to go away, to never touch me again. 

But of course that was not what he did.  Not even close.

His big, strong, familiar, despised hands turned me over onto my back. 

As my torso was exposed, my body instinctively started to curl in on itself. 

He wasn't having it.  He pinned my shoulders, moving his hips between my thighs before I could muster up the energy to maneuver away. 

His chest pressed to my breasts right as his lips took mine. 

My hands, of their own volition, began to tug at his tie, seeking skin even while I gasped out a ragged, "Don't kiss me." 

Please, I almost said, almost begged for that one small mercy.

But it would have been pointless, precious pride spent for nothing, because there was no mercy in him, not today. 

He kissed me with the same fevered longing that he always had.  The same despairing hope. 

The same passionate reverence. 

Like nothing had changed.  Like we hadn't destroyed each other and ourselves with determined, spiteful abandon since our last parting.  

I let him have me again, and this time it was, much, much worse.

More than fucking or release.  More than hate sex. 

More than masochism or revenge.

It was the give and take that only occurs when the heart is involved. 

When the heart isn't yours to give, because it already belongs to someone else. 

Because it always fucking did.

I barely got his tie off, his shirt open, as he tugged the scant top of my dress down, dragging the thin straps off my shoulders.

He took me face to face, mouth to mouth, bare chest to bare chest.

It was smoother this time.  With more finesse.  This was not merely him consuming me.  It was not just his body partaking of mine.  This time he seduced as much as he owned. 

It lasted longer.  And felt better. 

There was more pleasure to be had within his expert, knowing touch.

There was more delight to endure under his relentless, familiar body.

There was more torment to suffer from his unstoppable, merciless lips.

The first time had been more than enough to mess with my head for the foreseeable future, but the second time ruined me. 

Utterly.  Completely. 

If I'd built up any believable delusions that I could move forward from this, from him, he'd just blown them all to little, twitching, unrecoverable bits.  

Was there some piece of my heart left intact inside of my miserable chest before that encounter? 

Some tiny fragment of my soul? 

I couldn't remember. 

But I felt like nothing when he finished with me.  Whatever had been left, he'd just carelessly taken.   

There was some trivial bit of comfort to be taken in the fact that he seemed to be as affected.  He couldn't muster up the energy for a casual one-liner after that round.  Instead, when he caught his breath, he wrenched out of me, staggering away, his devastated eyes making a connection with mine for a few horrible beats before he strode off, heading opposite of the road, straightening his clothes as he took some crucial moments to compose himself, giving me his back. 

It was a mistake on his part, because I recovered faster, or at least, I got my act together quickly enough to make the first move. 

My only regret was that I didn't get to see his face as I drove away, leaving him stranded on the side of the road.

In the middle of fucking nowhere. 

I'd driven about a mile before I took some pity on him, slowing the car, rolling down the driver's side window, and tossing his phone out.  Maybe he'd find it and get himself a ride.

If I were smart I'd have kept the car, used it for a spell.  It was very nice, a brand new Audi.  I could have driven around in style for a change.  Even with how he felt about me now, I couldn't imagine him reporting it stolen. 

Still, I wanted him to report it, because I didn't keep it.   I left it in an empty parking lot a few blocks from my apartment, hoping he'd somehow get it back and find the present I'd carved for him on the hood.  

I fucking hate you.  Quit stalking me.

Subtlety had never been my strength.  Why try to change now? 

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

"There's nothing half so real in life as the things you've done... inexorably, unalterably done."

~Sara Teasdale

PRESENT

SCARLETT

We'd been living together in our love nest for a few months when it all came crashing down around us. 

I was resigned to being together in secret for the foreseeable future, or forever if need be.