P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Those lips.

  Those fuckable, juicy lips.

  “The first time I saw that mouth, it was wrapped around a sucker,” I say, taking her hand and placing it on my cock. She strokes the length, pumping it in her hand as our eyes hold. I’m going to fuck that pretty little mouth of hers the way I’ve fantasized about a thousand times before. “On your knees.”

  Halston lowers herself, her palm gripped around the base of my cock as she strokes the tip with her warm tongue.

  “Oh, god.” I exhale, tossing my head back as she takes the length of me in her mouth, going deeper and deeper still. Each swirl of her tongue, each pump of her hand, is pure fucking ecstasy … and I almost forget … “Get up.”

  She pulls my throbbing dick from between her swollen lips and rises. Tracing her nipples with my fingers, I pinch her rosy buds before taking one in my mouth.

  “Your body is fucking perfection.” I release a lungful of air before inhaling her sweet arousal all over again, preparing to own her the way I’ve always wanted to, if only for the smallest sliver of a single night. “And tonight, it belongs to me.”

  There’s a flicker in her eyes, a hint of a spark, as if my words breathed a fading part of her back to life. Her body surrenders to mine, melting with each touch, becoming pliant and malleable. She’s breathless, her fingers stroking my face, touching my hair, her mouth waiting for mine. She’s dreamed about this moment just as much as I have, only tonight I can’t promise it’s going to be the magical experience she always hoped it would be.

  “This is just sex, Halston,” I remind her.

  “I know.” She presses her mouth against mine, pressing her body against me.

  We stumble backwards until I take a seat in one of the captain’s chairs and she straddles me. Grinding against my cock, she presses her tits against me and buries her face in my neck.

  “No, no, no,” I stop her after a minute. “This isn’t how this is going to go down tonight.”

  She sits up, eyes searching mine, and I guide her off of me.

  “I want you on your hands and knees,” I say, pointing to a bench seat in the back of the boat. She once told me she hated “doggy style,” that her favorite position was missionary because it made her feel safe and it was romantic. Unfortunately nothing about this night is romantic, and if she wants to be fucked by me tonight, she’s going to get fucked by me tonight.

  Halston doesn’t protest.

  She does what I tell her to do.

  Approaching her from behind, I trace my fingertips along her inner thighs before spreading them wider. I want to see everything. I want her body on a silver fucking platter.

  Halston sighs, her body quivering, overcome with anticipation as I retrieve a gold foil packet from my wallet. Tearing it between my teeth, I sheathe my cock and stroke the shaft before teasing the tip along her slick seam.

  I watch her hands grip the seat cushions in front of her so hard her knuckles turn white, and when she least expects it, I enter her fully, completely, so deep she’s gasping for air.

  “Oh, god,” she whispers, as if she’s finally been gifted the relief she’s been so desperately seeking all of these years. “Don’t stop, Ford. Please. Keep going.”

  I feed my length harder, faster, my hands gripping her hips, controlling them with each piston and thrust. Her pussy is tight, slick with desire, and she clenches around my cock, the friction building as my thumb circles her clit.

  My palm slides up her smooth, soft belly, traveling between her breasts before cupping her jaw. Her moans quicken, her hips convulsing as if she’s right there on the edge, and I guide her up until our bodies are melded.

  “Come on, baby,” I moan into her ear. “Cum on that cock. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

  Fucking her harder, with everything I have, her body begins to shudder and tremble, quick sighs leaving her full lips as her hips buck against me. My release is sudden, hot streams jetting as her beautiful body bounces against mine, greedily accepting my cock until I have nothing more to give.

  Panting and drained in the literal sense, I pull out of her and collapse beside her, trying to catch my breath for a moment.

  For the first time in years, I taste vindication.

  But when I glance her way, she’s not wearing the smile of a satisfied woman, a woman content to move forward from this point on and leave the past in the past.

  “What?” I ask, brows furrowed as I sit forward.

  She shakes her head, not speaking as she gathers her bra and panties, slipping them on like she needs to get the fuck out of here.

  “Halston,” I say.

  Her back is to me now.

  “Are you … crying?” I ask.

  Without answering, she climbs over the side of the boat toward the door, messing with the lock.

  “Fuck. Let me help.” I pull my clothes on and get to the door, but first I spin her to face me. Fat tears drip down her cheeks. Two, maybe three. Her expression is tough, determined, but her eyes tell a different story. “You wanted this. You asked for this.”

  “I know,” she finally speaks.

  “Why are you crying? I thought you enjoyed it?” I sure as hell did.

  “It’s nothing,” she says, forcing a smile as two more tears streak down her flushed cheeks.

  “It’s not nothing,” I scoff.

  “It’s complicated. Now will you please unlock the fucking door?”

  I get the latch and step back as she rushes outside, searching for her clothes in the dark, sea-scented evening. Waiting in the boathouse, I give her time to get dressed and space to breathe.

  But when I come out, she’s gone.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Halston

  “Can I say I told you so?” Lila asks from the other end.

  I lie on my hotel bed Friday morning, my body damp from the shower and my hair wrapped in a towel. I don’t have the energy—or the motivation—to move. It took all the strength I had to take a damn shower this morning.

  “You were right.” I exhale, rolling to my side and pressing my cheek against a cool spot on the pillow.

  “Men are dumb. Literally,” she says. “We’re smarter than them in every way. The only thing they have on us is physical strength and the ability to get an erection on demand.”

  I laugh, which is a nice change of pace from last night.

  Crying after Kerouac fucked me wasn’t part of the plan, and I’m not sure who was more shocked: him or me. I don’t cry. Ever.

  He knew.

  He knew I hated that position, being on my knees and being fucked like an animal, but he did it anyway. He did it on purpose. It wasn’t the way he described it once upon a Karma conversation—the very fantasy I’d played in my mind hundreds of times before. It was nothing like that.

  Kerouac was cold, emotionless.

  Like I was any other girl and he was any other guy.

  “I thought I could fuck him out of my system,” I say.

  Lila laughs. “That’s not a thing.”

  “All these years, I wanted that from him. I wanted that physical closeness. That intimacy on a level we never had a chance to have,” I say. “I guess I was hoping one time together would change things. Would maybe make him feel differently, reconsider things? God, I’m an idiot.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Psh. No. It was just sex to him,” I say. “He made that clear.”

  To be fair, he made it clear five years ago, when he said he’d only fuck the shit out of me and break my heart. Guess he was telling the truth.

  “Okay, then fuck him,” Lila says. “Not literally but, you know, like … screw that shit. Time to move on. Close that chapter. Meet new and better people. Can’t promise you won’t get your heart broken again because that’s kind of an unavoidable fact of life, but I can promise there are men out there who are worthier of your tears.”

  My mouth curves. “You’re sweet to say that.”

  “Not trying to b
e sweet. Just being honest.”

  “What if I never have that kind of chemistry with anyone else?” I ask.

  “You will.”

  “What if I don’t? What if I have to settle for someone who prefers ESPN over Hemingway and has zero sense of humor?

  “What if you find someone better?” she asks.

  “Don’t know if that’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Lila says. “So, what’s the plan today?”

  “Not sure.” I check the time on my phone. “The rehearsal dinner is tonight, but we’re not in the wedding party, so Mason said something about doing our own thing today. Anyway, he’s probably going to be knocking at my door any minute now, so I should probably dry my hair or whatever.”

  She chuckles. “All right, sweets. Hang in there.”

  Hanging up, I peel myself out of bed, change into some real clothes, and put myself together. When I’m finished, the hotel phone rings.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.” It’s Mason. “I have a surprise for you today.”

  Jerking my head back, I’m confused, but all I can manage is a stuttered, “Wh-what?”

  “Ten minutes. Surprise. Lobby,” he says, words rushed.

  “I still have to dry my hair.” I yank the damp towel off my head. “I need more than ten minutes.”

  “Just try to hurry.”

  “Are we trying to catch a plane or something?” I lift a brow, completely getting my hopes up. I can’t deny the fact that I want to go home.

  Mason chuckles. “No. I’m taking you somewhere. You’ll love it.”

  Spending the day with Mason holds zero appeal to me, especially after last night and especially with my mind so consumed with … other things. But I came here with him. For him. I have no excuses not to go. There’s no getting out of this one.

  “Okay. Give me fifteen,” I say.

  Throwing my bag together, I step into a pair of flats and make my way downstairs, hoping I don’t run into Kerouac on the way down. I know I’m going to run into him tomorrow, at the wedding—that’s a given—but today I need some distance.

  It would hurt too much to see him so soon.

  Floating down to the main floor, the elevator deposits me in the lobby, and I spot Mason standing outside next to a black Escalade. He smiles when he sees me, waving me closer.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask when I climb in.

  “My family’s estate in Mattituck.” He slides in beside me, slipping a pair of shiny sunglasses over his nose.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.” Pulling out his phone, he checks his email. I’m dying to know what this is, what he’s up to, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

  An hour later, the driver pulls up to an iron gate, swiping a security card Mason hands him. Pulling in, we coast around a circle drive, past rows of shade trees and a bubbling fountain with a bronzed eagle in the center.

  The home is gargantuan, covered with cedar shingles and white framed windows and nestled on a few acres of land overlooking the sea.

  The driver gets my door, and Mason meets me at the back of the SUV.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  Head cocked and still unsure, I nod before following him inside.

  Taking my hand, he leads me through a sweeping foyer, down a hallway, and toward a set of double doors.

  “Cover your eyes,” he says. I place my hands over them, listening for the click of the door latch. With his hand on the small of my back, he guides me forward. “You can look now.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “You like?” Mason grins.

  “Is this real life?” I laugh, moving toward a bookcase on my left. This entire room is walls upon walls of bookcases, floor to ceiling, filled to the hilt. Hardcovers. Leather-bounds. First editions. All of them literary classics.

  “I know you like books,” he says.

  “Understatement, but yes.”

  “I wanted to thank you for coming with me,” he says. “I know it’s not easy working with me, and I’ve been a pain in the ass the last couple of days.”

  “Another understatement.” I flash him a smirk, then return to the beautiful book babies before me, sliding a copy of Anna Karenina from its proper place.

  “As a token of my appreciation, I wanted to bring you here,” he says. “And let you pick out a couple of books. Yours to keep.”

  “What?” I close the classic Tolstoy tome and lift my brows. “Are you serious?”

  Mason’s lips tug up at one side. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

  I don’t know how I’m going to choose, but I know we don’t have all day, so I’ll try to hurry. Scanning the spines, I realize everything is alphabetized, which should at least make things a bit easier. Within minutes, I find a pristine, first-edition copy of The Great Gatsby, sliding it off the shelf and clutching it against my chest.

  Making my way to the other side of the room, I maneuver around an oversized desk centered in the space, pausing when I spot a book lying on top of a ten-year-old calendar that seems to be stuck on the month of March.

  Setting Gatsby aside, I inspect the other book, my breath hitching when I realize it’s a first edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.

  “Oh, that was my stepfather’s favorite book,” Mason says, his hands in his pockets as he watches me. He hasn’t so much as checked out a single book since we’ve been in here, and I imagine he has no idea how priceless some of these relics are. “He read it all the time. Guess the author used to live on his street or something when he was a kid?”

  And now it makes sense, Ford’s love of Kerouac.

  Flipping the cover open, my fingers trace the messy, faded ink inscription.

  “To Bobby Hawthorne,

  All of life is a foreign country.

  Jack Kerouac.”

  “Can I have this one?” I ask.

  Mason nods. “Have whatever you want.”

  “Thank you.” I grab Gatsby and hold both books close to my heart. I’m going to give the second one to Ford. He may have hurt me, but this book belonged to his father, and he should have it.

  Mason gives me a tour of the place, I suppose for a lack of something better to do or maybe one last attempt to try and impress me. When we’re finished, he orders lunch from a local café and sends the driver out while we wait on the back patio, watching the waves lap onto the shore.

  Making myself comfortable on a lounger, I page through my original Great Gatsby, dragging my palms along the creamy paper and inhaling its deliciously musty scent, my gaze landing on a line I’ve always loved: “He looked at her the way all women want to be looked at by a man.”

  Exhaling, I feel a bittersweet smile curl across my lips as I think about Ford. He used to look at me like I was the only person in the room, the only thing that mattered. For a brief sliver of my short life, that man wanted me. And for the last five years, all I’ve wanted was to recapture that … to have that one more time.

  Closing the book, I resolve to accept my fate: Kerouac doesn’t want me anymore.

  It’s time to move on.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Ford

  All eyes are on the bride and groom … except mine.

  I can’t take mine off of her. My Absinthe. My intoxicating addiction.

  It was only supposed to be sex, but here I am two days later, craving her. Missing her. She’s in every face I see, every thought that occupies my one-track mind, her breathy sighs playing like a loop in my ear.

  I so badly wanted to fuel the fire, keep the raging torch burning just as bright as it had been all those years. It was easy to resent her from afar than to accept how empty the last five years have been without her in them.

  After the boathouse Thursday night, she left Aunt Cecily’s and went back to the hotel. I didn’t see her once yesterday, and I thought maybe she’d left Sag Harbor altogether. But then Mason walked into the church fift
een minutes before the wedding earlier today, my beautiful Halston draped on his arm in a pale pink dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair swept into a sophisticated bun at her crown.

  Almost immediately she saw me.

  And just as fast as it happened, she looked away.

  I wasn’t able to usher her to her seat; the groom’s second cousin got to her first, but I intend to find her at the reception, to steal her away and find a quiet place to go so we can sort this out, make sense of what remains.

  Bristol and Devin kiss, the priest introducing them as “Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss” as music begins to play from the organ pipes up front. The two of them dash down the white satin aisle, and I rise, heading to the front to begin dismissing rows.

  When I get to Halston’s, she still refuses to meet my penetrating stare, so when she passes, I brush my fingers against her hand.

  Our eyes meet for a single unbroken moment before Mason takes her hand and pulls her away. She disappears into the crowd a moment later, and I lose her all over again.

  But I’m getting her back tonight.

  “Have you seen Mason’s date?” I ask Nicolette a couple of hours later. The reception venue is packed, most people either seated at their assigned tables or mingling at the bar. All I’ve done since we arrived is search for the girl in the pink dress with the sad green eyes.

  But she’s not here.

  “That’s a weird question.” Nic wrinkles her nose.

  I don’t have time to explain.

  “I wanted to ask her a question,” I say. It’s the truth. I want to ask her a lot of questions.

  “About what?”

  I exhale. “I need to find her. I’ll be back.”

  She rests her cheek against her fist, studying me. “You’ve been acting so freaking weird ever since we got here.”

  Waving her off, I grab my tumbler of Scotch, take a healthy drink, and leave the table.

  Circling the room, I check all forty-two tables, the span of the open bar, the backstage area where the wedding band preps, as well as the hall by the restrooms.

  She’s nowhere to be found.