I woke to an empty bed and the faint scent of him still clinging to the sheets.
Sunlight sliced through the half-open curtains and painted gold across my skin. Every inch of me ached in the best way. My thighs trembled when I tried to move. Between my legs I felt swollen, tender, and impossibly full. His cum had dried in streaks down my inner thighs and pooled beneath me on the expensive hotel linen. I shifted and another slow trickle leaked out of me. My breath caught at the reminder.
Water ran in the bathroom. The door stood ajar.
I turned my head.
He stood at the marble sink, completely naked, water dripping from his black hair. It traced paths down the sharp lines of his back and over the curve of his ass before it fell to the floor. Broad shoulders flexed as he braced both palms on the counter, head bowed, breathing slow like he fought himself.
I couldn't look away.
For a moment the room blurred and I was six years old again, standing in the doorway of my mother's bedroom watching her pack a suitcase.
"You'll understand when you're older, Nora," she had said, not even looking at me. "Some people aren't meant to stay."
I remembered the way my father sat at the kitchen table afterward, staring at nothing, a glass of whiskey trembling in his hand. I remembered promising myself I would never let anyone close enough to leave a hole that size.
I blinked and the memory dissolved. The man in the bathroom lifted his head and caught my stare in the mirror. Storm-gray eyes locked on mine and the air left my lungs.
"Morning," he said, voice rougher than last night, scraped raw from my screams.
I sat up slowly. The sheet slipped to my waist. My nipples tightened the instant the cool air touched them. His gaze dropped to my breasts, lingered, then slid lower to the mess he had left between my thighs. His jaw clenched.
He turned off the faucet and walked toward me. Water still beaded on his chest. His cock hung heavy against his thigh, half-hard already, and growing thicker with every step.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down at me. At the bruises blooming on my hips where his fingers had dug in. At the wet spot darkening the sheets. At the way I still glistened with him.
"Christ," he muttered, almost reverent.
I stretched, deliberate and slow, and let my knees fall open. A fresh pulse of warmth slipped out of me. His pupils blew wide.
"Look what you did," I whispered.
His throat worked. "I see."
I reached for him. My fingers brushed the cut of his hip and he stepped closer, letting me trace the line where his abs met thigh. He was fully hard now, flushed and leaking at the tip.
I wrapped my hand around him and felt him throb. "Still want me?" I asked, voice soft.
He didn't answer with words. He climbed onto the bed, pushed my thighs wider, and settled between them like he belonged there. The head of his cock nudged my entrance and we both groaned at how easily he slid through the mess he had left inside me.
No resistance. Just slick heat and the obscene sound of him pushing his own cum deeper.
He braced above me on locked arms and stared down into my eyes. "Tell me again," he said through gritted teeth.
I arched up until the tip slipped inside. "Cum in me," I breathed. "One more time before you disappear like everyone else."
His control shattered.
He drove into me in one brutal thrust and I cried out, nails raking down his back. He fucked me slow and filthy, every stroke pushing last night's release deeper, marking me all over again. My legs locked around his waist. I felt every ridge, every pulse, every vein.
He dropped to his elbows, mouth against my ear. "You feel that?" he growled. "Feel how full you still are?"
"Yes," I sobbed, clenching around him.
He reached between us, thumb circling my clit, and I shattered almost instantly, coming hard around his cock. He followed seconds later, hips jerking as he spilled hot and deep, adding to the flood already inside me.
When it ended he stayed buried, forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking.
Minutes later he eased out slowly. I whimpered at the loss and felt the warm rush of everything we had made together spill onto the sheets.
He kissed me once, soft and lingering, then stood. I watched him dress in silence: boxer briefs, trousers, shirt hanging open. He looked like sin poured into a suit.
At the door he paused. Pulled a black credit card from his wallet and set it on the dresser beside a folded note.
I didn't move until the door clicked shut behind him.
Only then did I reach for the note.
If you ever need anything, call.
No name. Just a phone number scrawled in sharp, impatient ink.
I pressed my thighs together and felt him leak out of me again.
I laughed, low and shaky.
For the first time in twenty-three years, someone had left, and I wasn't the one bleeding.
I was the one full.