A/N: Anonymous Iguana, you are more accurate than you know. ;) Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Please enjoy the second, and be aware that it is M-rated.
If Harry suspected anything had happened during his absence from the car, he did not say a word. He simply nodded when Kurt instructed him to drive them across the river and back to the house in Virginia, but Jane watched his face nonetheless, looking for clues she knew wouldn't be there. It was part of the reason why Harry was Jane's favorite, out of all of Kurt's employees. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes averted and when questioned about sensitive matters, his answer was always and unequivocally I have no comment, thank you.
Jane would miss him, after she left. He had a quiet presence, so quiet that sometimes you didn't even notice him unless you were looking for him, but that's what Jane loved most about him. He had always been an ally to her, even when it wasn't convenient for him, even when—had Kurt been a more vindictive man—it might've cost Harry his job. All those nights she'd called him from the house and he'd come, without question, without hesitation. He had helped her in ways her divorce attorney hadn't been able to, in ways she never would have asked of her friends. He had been there, on the worst nights, to simply pick her up and drive her away from her life. He had kept her sane.
And though they never spoke of it, she never forgot it.
She watched him in the rearview mirror and she wondered what he thought of her now. Did he think she was pathetic, crawling back to her ex-husband like this not ten minutes after he'd been declared her ex-husband? Did he pity her, she who had so few options in this city? Or did he not care at all?
She wanted to believe the latter was the answer, but she knew better. Harry cared. He always cared.
Perhaps one day she would thank him, but not today. She turned her head out towards the window as they reached the bridge, and kept staring out until she felt Kurt's hand reach across the seat and take hers. She glanced over, questioning, swallowing the urge to pull her hand away when she noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring. She didn't know what they were doing right now, but she knew with every minute that passed, she would regret this decision. A pit had formed in her stomach the moment he'd touched her in the car outside the hotel and it was only expanding the longer they spent together.
Part of her wished she'd just taken him up to her hotel room and done it there, to get this masochistic urge out of the way as quickly as possible. But then she would've had to live in that room for another eighteen hours, and she didn't think she could take that. Surrounded by his smell, his presence, his memory… No. Paradoxical as it was, it was easier to go back to the house to do this. Just one last time.
A half-hour later, and they had arrived. Jane hadn't been to the house in months, and it surprised her that it still looked the same. Same lawn, same bushes, same flowers, same paint job. Somehow, in her mind, the place had fallen into disrepair after she'd left. But of course the gardeners had kept coming, and the cleaners, and maybe even the painters, by the fresh look of the window shutters. She stood on the sidewalk and admired the house as Kurt stopped to talk with Harry. It was a gorgeous home, and she would miss it. She knew if she'd fought for it in the divorce, he would've given it to her, but deep down she didn't really want it. She couldn't live here with all the memories, with all the neighbors, with all the prying eyes.
So instead she took the brownstone in New York as her consolation prize.
She wasn't naive; she knew questions would follow her there. She was a public figure who had just had a very unexpected divorce without a hint of financial or sexual scandal—people would come sniffing for the "real" story.
But at least they'd have to hike up to New York to get it from her. By default, Kurt would be the closer, easier target.
"You all right?"
Jane turned at the sound of Kurt's voice, surprised to see Harry and the car already gone. She felt a flash of sadness, for she'd been hoping to get a chance to say goodbye to him, but she quickly pushed it away. It was better this way. Better to make a clean break with him, if not with Kurt.
As they started towards the house, Jane felt Kurt's hand rise to her back, as it had so many times before, and she was almost lulled back to that familiarity before he seemed to remember himself and took his hand away. As they walked on, she couldn't decide if she felt grateful or bereft without his touch, but it hardly mattered, because the moment the door was shut behind them, his mouth was on hers and his hands were a prison around her face.
"Wait!" she gasped, pushing him back, trying to catch her breath as she wiped her mouth. His hands were still holding fast to her cheeks and she had to shove against his chest until he let go. "You have to wait," she told him. "I need a drink first."
"A drink?" he repeated incredulously, calling after her as she walked away. "Seriously? It isn't even noon."
She didn't answer. It might be eleven in the morning, but she'd wanted alcohol since the moment she'd woken up. He was lucky she hadn't shown up to their signing half-drunk. And he was insane if he thought they were going to do this sober.
"What do you have in here?" she called, yanking the fridge open. She immediately shut it: the smell of rotting food was overpowering. "Jesus," she swore under her breath. The house might look nice from the outside, but it was falling apart within. "Been sleeping in your office again, congressman?"
"No," he muttered, but he said it in that stubborn way that told her he was lying. As if the evidence hadn't spoken for itself.
"Okay, what's the emergency stash? Scotch?" she guessed, naming his preferred.
He nodded. "I think there's some vodka in the freezer, too. And—" He hesitated for just a second. "—a little of your bourbon's still here."
"Is it?" she asked, surprised. He'd never liked bourbon. It was always her drink; he rarely ever stole sips, even when they were out of everything else. She frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, 'a little'?"
He looked away, shrugging.
"Where is it?" she demanded.
He sighed, but didn't withhold any longer. "Office."
She pushed past him, walking quickly towards the back of the house, and opened the door that was always closed. She could hear him following after her, his slow, heavy steps echoing through the empty house. By the time he stepped inside, she'd already opened half the drawers in his desk and was working on the other half. He saved her some time by tossing her his keys.
She raised her eyebrows, but picked out the correct key without a word. There, inside the bottom right-most drawer of his desk, were a number of private documents and, as she'd hoped, a bottle of Bulleit.
Except it was almost empty.
"What the hell?"
She had not left an almost-empty bottle of bourbon here. She knew that for a fact, because when she'd left, she'd regretted leaving it behind. It had been brand-new, sitting on the kitchen counter, and she'd been torn between wanting to take it with her and wanting to throw it at his head. In the end, she'd done neither. In the end, she'd left it full and unopened on the counter as she'd stormed out.
But now here it was, almost empty, hidden away in his drawer. His locked drawer.
"Have you been drinking my bourbon?" she wondered aloud. The answer was clear in his face and, to his credit, he didn't attempt to lie. She yanked out the cork and took a swallow. It burned deliciously going down, and watching him watch her burned even better. "When have you been drinking it?" she pressed, feeling the alcohol start to work.
"You know when."
She held the bottle out to him as he stepped towards her and he took it, swallowing hard, sucking in a sharp breath afterward. He tried to pass it back, but she refused to take it.
"When?" she demanded.
He closed his eyes and took another, smaller swallow.
"When I miss you," he answered, and despite herself, she smiled.
She took the bottle from his hands and swallowed more. More. More and more, until she felt her head start to grow a little cloudy.
"And when's that, hm?" she asked, taking a step towards him. When she was close enough, she rested her free hand on his chest. "When do you miss me?"
"All the time."
She clicked her tongue, unimpressed. "Don't romance me, Weller. Neither of us are here for that, and you know it."
"Fine." He opened his eyes, snatched the bourbon bottle out of her hand, and swallowed hard. "Late nights," he said when he surfaced. "Early mornings. An afternoon here or there."
A smirk pulled at one side of her mouth. "Interesting. As I recall, you were always too busy for afternoons."
"Yeah, well, a man can change, Jane."
"Is that so? Is afternoon your time now? Well, you may be in luck…"
She took the bourbon from him, and swallowed all but the dregs at the end. She could feel it spreading, could feel her fingers start to tingle, complementing her swimming head. Clumsily, she reached around him to set the bottle down on the desk. There was one precious swallow left in there, and she wanted to keep it safe. His hands rose to her hips as she reached around him, ostensibly holding her steady, and she grinned at the play, leaning closer, brushing her body against his, just enough to make him groan softly in the back of his throat.
As she straightened up, she lifted a hand to his face, holding his chin. She brushed her fingers against his beard, dragging her thumb against his lower lip, remembering the car, remembering him sucking on her fingers. Just the thought of it made her body clench in anticipation.
His hands were migrating around her waist, making their very obvious way to her ass, and she only smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. He tasted like bourbon and he tasted delicious. She was moving slow, though, and before she could come up with a game plan, his tongue was in her mouth and his hands were squeezing her ass and she was moaning, pushing herself against him. She could feel him starting to get hard through his pants and she moved closer, grinding herself shamelessly against him. His tongue was busy in her mouth and after her own explorations, she knew why. After a minute more of it she pulled away, laughing.
"You like it, don't you?" she taunted. "You like the bourbon. Tell me, how does it taste?"
"It tastes sour and smokey and angry." He gripped her ass harder. "Just like you."
She smirked, adjusting herself against his hardening erection. "I know I should be insulted by that, but instead I'm just really, really turned on."
"At least I can still do one thing right."
"Oh, no," she murmured, linking her hands behind his neck. "I think you can do plenty of things right, congressman."
He smiled briefly, a little lost at the title, not sure if she was mocking him or encouraging him. She didn't answer. She wasn't drunk enough yet for this question. Once, when they'd been newlyweds, she'd confessed it sober. But that was a lifetime ago now.
She reached up to kiss him, running her nails through his hair to distract him. It worked: he retaliated by hauling her against him, so roughly it made her think she might have little bruises from his fingerprints on her ass tomorrow morning, and that thought only made her hotter. He was more than just a little hard now, and they were moving in earnest together, bodies slipping and sliding despite all the clothes between them.
She was glad he kept going, and did not let up, because she knew if he let up they would have to talk and she did not want to talk. She didn't want to talk about what they were doing, or what they would be doing later, but most importantly, she did not want to give him time to suggest they do it somewhere else. She did not want to go upstairs to their old bedroom; she did not want to remember the last time they'd been in that room; she did not want to remember the fighting or the tears or the sex that had been far too angry and punishing. She just wanted to live here, in this madness after, and enjoy it.
He must have thought the same, because in minutes, he was hauling her up into her arms—not to carry her off, but to deposit her on the desk—and she nearly thanked god out loud for this gift. He was tearing through the buttons on her shirt, and she was shoving his suit jacket off, and by the time his hand was up her skirt and his fingers were inside her, she finally found the voice to ask for what she really wanted. She'd finished the last of the bourbon while he'd been unzipping his pants, and it had given her the boost she needed.
"I don't want it like this."
He looked up from the condom he was opening—she had no idea where he'd even gotten that—and all at once she watched his face drain of excitement and then fill with dread.
"I—I meant the position," she rushed to say, not wanting to lose this momentum they'd built. She was having some trouble with her words, but that was better than having trouble with her scruples. "I don't want this position, that's all."
"Then how do you…?"
He trailed off, unsure, and if she hadn't already been red in the face from all the booze, she would've been from embarrassment. It made sense that he didn't remember, given that they hadn't revisited this particular fetish since their honeymoon. She had had fantasies about it, after he'd first started campaigning. It had turned her on, to be married to someone who suddenly had a title and status and authority. That's what had gotten to her, and even to this day, she didn't know exactly why. She'd never felt a particular affinity for a dominant/submissive relationship.
But she did have a very particular affinity for the thought of her husband bending her over a desk and fucking her.
Well, ex-husband.
It was so juvenile, so conventionally dirty, and yet it turned her on without fail. She used to think of it, sometimes, during their more lackluster lovemaking. If he couldn't make her come, her own filthy thoughts of him could. She had been hoping, this one last time, that she wouldn't have to rely on thoughts anymore.
"Are… Are you sure?" he asked warily, after she explained what she wanted.
She wanted to shake him, wanted to demand why he was questioning of every single little thing she wanted today, but instead she just smiled, leaned up to kiss him, and whispered, "Why don't you find out?"
Then she turned around and walked around to the front of the desk, leaning over it just enough to brace her fingertips against its surface. She looked at him and he stared back, his eyes burning into hers as if somehow that would give him the upper hand.
"I can always go back to the hotel if you don't want it like this," she offered. "I'm sure I can find some takers at the bar."
It was as easy as that.
She grinned as he started towards her, but once he disappeared behind her, she refused to look back. She could sense him there, just inches away, and she relished in the taunting, knowing she would never feel this same anticipation again. Finally he reached out, lifting a hand to brush her hair to the side. She shivered when his lips met her ear.
"We don't have very long," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the soft skin behind her ear. "There are a lot of people in the house and they'll start looking for us soon if we don't head back out…"
Jane closed her eyes, remembering, wondering how he had read her mind like this after so many years of miscommunications.
In the early days, when they'd first moved to DC, their weekends had been almost exclusively filled with fundraising benefits. At first it was small things—little dinner parties with lowly DC types; trips back to Pennsylvania to meet with the public—but it didn't take long for the guest lists to lengthen and become exclusive. Kurt always liked to keep that personal touch, though, and so they hosted nearly all of their fundraising efforts in their own home.
It had been nerve-racking at first, to have so many important Washington politicians and influencers and journalists in their house. Early on, he'd been as nervous as her, and so she'd always found a moment, usually as the cocktail hour was winding down, to pull him away from this conversation or that on the pretense that she had something very important to discuss in private. She'd sneak him away into this very office, and once the door was closed, they could have a few precious minutes to themselves: to gossip, to debrief, to laugh, to fool around… He never let that get very far, aware as he always was that there were other people who not only needed his time, but paid plenty for it. He always indulged her, though, at least in the early days. He liked their little escapes; sometimes he even instigated them.
But as he continued to amass respect and connections and election wins, things began to change. He became adept at handling donors and allies and rivals alike. He knew how to talk to the entire spectrum of attendees, from campaign volunteers right up to cabinet members. He didn't need her to pull him away from tough conversations anymore; in fact, he jumped at the challenges, and if she tried to interrupt on his supposed behalf, she entertained her politely for a moment or two before returning to the real matters at hand. More and more, he didn't have time for her during those nights unless she was standing smiling by his side, playing the gracious and beautiful and mostly silent hostess.
Once, she'd tried to reach for some of that old magic again. He'd been in negotiations with some California senator over dinner and she had pulled him away on the pretense of having an important call waiting. He hadn't been happy about being interrupted, but he'd followed after her nonetheless, pestering her with questions about the call that she pointedly avoided, all the while worrying aloud that the senator he'd left behind would be putty in someone else's hands by the time he returned.
She'd been certain that once they got inside, he would realize what she was doing, would remember all the times before, but that wasn't the case. He made a beeline for the phone, and when he heard only a dial tone on the other end, he demanded to know who had called and why she'd let them hang up so fast. She had started to laugh, but he wasn't smiling when demanded to know why she hadn't come to find him sooner. She should've taken that as a sign, but they were on such different wavelengths at that point that they might as well have been speaking different languages. He was searching through the voicemails and the recent call list when she'd sidled up beside him, one hand reaching for his chin to pull his mouth to hers, the other slipping into his back pocket. He'd jerked away in surprise and then, bewildered, he'd stared at her, and then at the phone, and then back to her. She'd watched the realization dawn on his face just a half-second before he started yelling.
Luckily, the chatter of a hundred people outside masked the sound of his raised voice inside the office, so no one else ever knew what he'd said, but she never forgot it. Is this what turns you on now? Fucking over my career for these stupid games? He had never yelled at her before, not once, and she flinched that night as if he'd smacked her. She'd tried to come up with an explanation, but as usual she was too slow, and he was out the door before she'd even gotten a sentence out. He hadn't slammed the door, but he might as well have. They did not speak to each other for the rest of the night after that.
In fact, they never spoke of that night again. He never apologized, and the most naive part of her still resented him for it, still expected better from him. He had done worse since, and yet that evening was always the memory that rankled the most, because it had been a harbinger of all the rest.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut harder, focusing on the present, on his lips on her neck, telling herself this was the apology she'd been waiting for. She knew it was the closest she'd ever get.
"How long do we have?" she whispered, lifting a hand from the desk so she could slide it behind his neck and pull him closer. "Is anyone looking for you yet?"
"Mm, hope not," he whispered, sliding his hands beneath the back of her shirt. "But it's hard to tell, so I need you to be quiet." His tongue licked along the curve of her ear. "Can you be quiet for me, dear?"
Jane opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, one of his hands slid to her front, pinching her nipple, and she had to trap a yelp in a whimper.
"Good." He nuzzled her neck appreciatively, his voice heavy and low. "That's a good girl."
She closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing as his hands slid to her front, fondling her breasts. She craned her neck back, searching for his lips blindly, so that when he pulled on her other nipple, she could let his mouth swallow her moan.
His hands slid down from her chest to stomach, and then roamed, feeling all around. It took her a moment to realize he wasn't just feeling her up, and when she felt her skirt start to loosen, his hands opening the zipper, she pulled her mouth from his.
"Leave it," she whispered, breathless.
She watched him try to swallow, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
"Someone might walk in," she murmured, placing her hand over his. "Or we might be needed out there. We'll have to dress quickly. It's safer if we just…" She pulled her zipper back up, and moved his hands to the hem of her skirt instead. "Like this," she told him, and she then she bent over.
She could hear him groan aloud at the visual, and it made her grin. She knew he'd like this.
He squeezed her hips, bending over low to press a kiss to her upper back in appreciation.
"We should get divorced more often," he whispered in her ear, and she couldn't stop herself from laughing.
She could feel him smiling when he kissed her shoulder again, just before he straightened up again, and pulled her back against him by the hips. She moaned at the feel of him hard against her, and rubbed her ass against him in response, egging him on, desperate for more as she lifted herself up again, twisting her neck so her lips could find his once more. He complied as if reading her mind: burying one hand in her hair to keep her mouth attached to his, and pushing the other up between her legs. She moaned at the feel of his fingers inside her again, spreading her wide and pushing inside. He quickly built up a rhythm, pushing two fingers inside hard and fast, accompanied by intermittent swipes of the edge of his thumb against her clit.
"Fuck," she whimpered, breaking their kiss when she couldn't take it anymore. "Kurt…"
"Shh." His lips were at her cheek, her temple, her ear. His breath was hot against her skin, drenched in bourbon. "We don't want anyone to overhear us now, do we?"
"No," she breathed, closing her eyes, trying to focus. His rhythm had slowed to a leisurely pace now, but she knew what that meant; she knew what was coming. "We don't want anyone to hear."
"Good," he whispered, and she groaned when he pulled his fingers out of her, as if to beg, Please don't punish me. Not ten seconds later, she was rewarded.
"Fuck!"
She couldn't have kept in the shout even if she'd tried, even if there had truly been a party in full swing on the other side of the door that might've overheard. It had been nearly half a year since they'd last slept together, and though she hadn't exactly forgotten what it used to feel like, she certainly hadn't thought about it in a while. But no matter: he was reminding her now. With every push of his body inside hers, she found herself moaning louder and falling further forward onto the desk, until she was bent fully at the waist and holding herself upright only by her forearms resting on its surface. She'd shoved papers and pens and even a stapler aside in her desperation to find some purchase; it was lucky he didn't use a desktop computer, otherwise that would've been wrecked too. Not that he would've complained.
He was singleminded in his task, even shoving her skirt up over her waist so he could get a better angle, and gripping her shoulder to keep her in place—either bent fully at the waist so he could drive into her hard, or hauled up against him so he could kiss her and touch her and tease her. She let him take the lead, not wanting nor needing control in this moment. After so many years, he knew what to do, and as this was the last time, she trusted him to finally do it right.
He didn't disappoint.
They didn't say anything after, but stood there panting, sweating, still joined and bent over the desk. She had supported herself on her forearms near the end, and they were sore from the pressure, so she rested her forehead against the wood instead, her sweat making the surface slick. She closed her eyes when she felt his arm curling around her stomach, hugging her to him—but only for a moment, as their bodies were too tired for much else.
After what felt like a lifetime, he straightened up and withdrew, careful with the condom until it was in the trash. When he turned back around, she was still where he'd left her: naked and bent over the desk. She had her cheek against the wood now, her face turned in his direction.
Their eyes met and he asked, genuinely curious, "Do you really want more?"
She laughed softly, shaking her head against the wood. "No. I'm just having trouble getting up."
"Well, I'm a little too old to be carrying you places."
"I'm not asking you to," she replied, though she, like him, was smiling at the memories. The day they'd moved into this house, after the movers had left and they'd stopped marveling at what a wonderful home they would make together, he'd carried her up the stairs and into their as-yet-furnished bedroom. They'd made love on the wood floor that night and the next morning. The second day, they put the bed frame together and carried the mattress up, and ever since then, they'd reverted to being no different than any other couple. Even their divorce wasn't too surprising, given the rate at which most marriages fell apart these days. They'd lasted longer than most, and if nothing else, that was a point of pride. Or at least it should be.
But as he walked back towards her, all she could think about were all the years they'd wasted together.
She closed her eyes as he tugged on her hips, trying to get her to straighten up. She groaned at the entreaty to move.
"I'm not carrying you," he reminded her sternly, and finally she straightened up.
They stood like that for a minute, his front to her back, his hands sliding from her hips to her stomach. She closed her eyes when one slid between her legs, and leaned her head back against his shoulder, allowing his mouth on her neck once more. She was still warm between his fingertips, but he missed the feeling of himself dripping from her. He would miss a lot of things, once this day ended.
He couldn't resist: one of his fingers pressed closer, teasing for more, but she mumbled in disagreement, twisting away. He started to apologize, but it was too late, she had stepped away and—he knew without seeing her face—begun to think about leaving. He might only have ten seconds left, he knew. Or maybe, if he played his cards right, if he negotiated as well as he'd been taught to, he could eek out a few more hours. He turned to face her, but knew immediately—in a way he never had before when they'd fought—that she didn't want to be talked to. She didn't want to be touched. She wanted to be left alone, he knew it instinctively, and though it went against every other instinct he had, he left her alone. He cast his eye to the floor and then, not being able to think of anything better to do, he sat down atop it, using the front of his desk as a backrest.
He waited for her to leave, but instead, against all logic, she took a seat beside him. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. And then she said, "I'm starving. Can we order pizza?"
They ended up on the living room couch, half-dressed, using napkins for plates and the coffee table as a footrest. It reminded her of the first night they'd moved in; they'd gotten take-out Chinese and eaten it on this very floor. That felt like an eternity ago, and when she said as much, he nodded silently, not meeting her eye. She took the hint and stopped talking then, and they ate in silence beside one another until the food was gone. It was only as she was getting up to throw away the trash that he finally spoke.
"If I had quit, would we still be married?"
The question caught her off-guard, and she froze for a moment, halfway between sitting and standing. She was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was still wearing his wedding ring, whereas she hadn't worn hers in months.
"I don't know," she said finally, sitting back down. She shifted so she was facing him head-on. He deserved that much, at least. "I've thought about it too," she admitted, "and I still don't know, because… Well, it's a moot point, isn't it? You never would have quit, would you? Even if I'd asked you to?"
"You're not answering my question."
"Well, you're not answering mine either, are you, Kurt?"
He blew out a breath, hard and angry, and she knew he was battling between blaming her for this conversation and blaming himself. She sat, trying to brace herself for whatever was to come. She wasn't scared of yelling anymore. They'd spent entire days of their lives yelling at each other.
But when he spoke this time, it was softly. When he looked at her, something in his face had changed, and she could not turn away.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked quietly. "Was our marriage that terrible?"
She shook her head, shifting away, letting out her own sigh. This was why she shouldn't have come today. Worse than the sex were the conversations like this one, after everything had already been all said and done. They could not litigate this all over again. They could not keep having these same fights into eternity.
She opened her mouth to argue that point before she realized she didn't have to argue anything. She didn't have to answer him, or answer to him, not anymore. They were divorced, and so she no longer had any obligations except to herself. So instead of fighting another long, meaningless fight, she got up, threw out her trash, and then headed towards the stairs.
"I need to shower before I go," was all she bothered to say by way of explanation.
He didn't follow after her. She half expected it, and took the stairs slowly, just waiting to hear the floorboards start to creak beneath his added weight. But he didn't move, and by the time she'd reached the top of the stairs, she'd stopped listening for him. She moved through their bedroom without looking at the bed, and shut the bathroom door firmly behind her, avoiding the mirror as she stripped out of her clothes and turned on the shower.
The hot water was a revelation, and for a few minutes she just stood there beneath its spray, letting it coat her and rinse her and slough off what felt like pounds of dead skin and countless foolish hopes. Then she reached for the soap and began cleaning herself of him in earnest.
She pretended not to hear, some time later, when the bathroom door opened. She had shampoo in her hair and so she kept her eyes closed as she lathered it in and then washed it out, but she could sense him there even without being able to see him. He was lingering just inside the door, but she was unable to tell if that was because he wasn't sure if he was allowed in, or if he wasn't sure if he wanted in. She finished conditioning her hair, and then, as if she were getting out, she pushed open the door to the shower.
When she didn't step out, he took the invitation for what it was.
The second time was slower, gentler. She could taste the apology in the way he kissed her, could feel it in the way he held her, could hear it in the way he whispered, if not I'm sorry, at the very least I love you. She didn't say it back, mostly because she had promised long ago to stop lying to him, but also because she knew he didn't truly mean it. He thought he meant it—that much was obvious—but the very fact that he felt the need to say it, now at the very end, only proved how meaningless it was.
But it was comforting, nonetheless, so she let him say it. She let him kiss him and hold her and, though she didn't let him finish inside her, she let him make love to her. It seemed to both take a very long time and also be over in an instant. She would try to remember, later, what it felt like, but the memory would be gone, lost in the heat and the steam of the shower, and all she'd be able to remember afterwards were his too-little too-late whispers.
All things considered, it was a kinder ending than most marriages got. Part of her was even grateful for it.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I apologize for the wait with this one; finishing up this chapter made me realize just how much of a struggle it is for me to write romantic j/k content these days. It just doesn't come willingly anymore. However, the plot demanded it, so I hope this chapter delivered! Thankfully, we (along with Jane) will be moving on to greener pastures soon enough... :)
If you have any thoughts on this chapter, please leave a review! They make my day. :D