“I have to go.”
There was finality in his words I hadn’t heard before and as I lifted my hand to run sleepily through his hair I realised this really might be the last time. Soon we would go back to barely knowing each other.
The touch was too intimate, too thoughtful and I regretted it instantly.
“Yeah.” I let my hand fall away.
“You gonna miss me?” His breath was hot through the fabric of my knickers and I shivered despite it.
I shrugged, watching the smile curve his mouth. “Probably not.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” He slid back on the bed, skated his fingers stained with paint and ink under the hem of my underwear and stripped them carelessly away. “I think,” He muttered, burying his face between my thighs again, “I think you will, when you’re back with him.”
It made me ache. The injustice of it tugged at my wandering, still-tired mind, daring me to ask him to stay just a little longer, just one more day. But his slow, focused movements drew short faltering breaths out of me and when I wound my fingers into his hair again it felt right, it felt necessary.