No. Not thinking. That was the whole point.
We made it halfway down the hall before I tripped and we crashed into the wall. I giggled, the sound escaping before I could stop it, and Connor grinned like I’d said something brilliant. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I lied, because saying anything else would mean admitting this wasn’t perfect, that tomorrow everything would go back to being terrible.
He kissed me again, his hands cupping my face, and the gentleness of it made my throat tight. I pushed into the kiss harder, needing it to be less tender.
Less like goodbye.
We stumbled into his room and I reached behind me for my dress’ zipper, but my fingers fumbled.
“Let me,” Connor said, turning me around and unzipping with deliberate slowness, but there was an edge to the movement, like maybe if he didn’t concentrate he’d fuck it up. Like he was holding onto control by his fingernails.
The dress pooled at my feet, and I turned to face him in just my bra and panties. The look on his face made my breath hitch—or maybe that was just a tequila burp.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracking.
“Connor.” I reached for his belt. “Stop talking.”
I didn’t want words. Words made things real, and if it was real then it would hurt when he left, and I couldn’t—I just needed—
“I know,” he said, helping me with his pants. His foot got caught and then we were falling onto the bed in a graceless heap that would have embarrassed sober-me.
But I wasn’t sober, and neither was he, and maybe it was easier this way so we could regret it in the morning.
But no, even as the idea appeared, I knew I wouldn’t regret this. I couldn’t.
His hands were everywhere, and I arched into the touch, chasing sensation, anything to keep me in this moment instead of thinking about tomorrow. My bra came off—I think I did it, or maybe he helped, it didn’t matter.
“Condom,” I managed. “Do you have—”
“Yeah. Hold on.” He rolled off me, fumbling with his nightstand. The drawer stuck. He yanked it too hard and it came all the way out, spilling contents onto the floor.
“Shit,” he muttered, squinting at the floor. “I can’t—where did it—”
I leaned over the edge of the bed, spotting the condom box. “There.”
“Right. Yeah. Got it.” He grabbed the box, hands shaking as he pulled one out. Something dangerous flickered in my chest—affection or fondness, feelings I couldn’t afford to have. BecauseI’d finally found someone who made me feel less alone, less like a complete failure. Someone who looked at me like I mattered.
And he was leaving tomorrow.
“Hannah?” Connor was looking at me, brow furrowed. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said quickly, pulling him over me. “Don’t stop.”
He kissed me, and I tasted salt. Tequila or tears? Mine or his? I didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
We fumbled with the condom together, hands tangling, and then he was at my entrance, and I wrapped my legs around him.
“Hannah,” he said, and there was a question in it.
“Please.” I pulled him closer. “Just—please.”
He entered me slowly, his eyes searching my face. But whatever he was searching for? I didn’t want him to find it. I closed my eyes, rolled my hips, urging him faster, needing this to be about bodies and touch and not about… anything else.
We weren’t coordinated. We bumped foreheads trying to kiss. His elbow landed on my hair and I yelped. We laughed, breathless, and then the laughter died because it felt too good and too sad all at once.
His control slipped—I felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his breath came shorter. “I’m—geez, Hannah, I… you feel so good, and I don’t know if—”
