No Going Back

He’s leaving in hours.

I haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t given him anything to cling to.

But I know him well enough now to picture him in perfect detail: sitting somewhere, thinking it’s over, convincing himself I’ve already moved on.

That’s when I appear.

When the silence is loudest.

When the ache has sharpened into something hollow.

⸻

I walk into the lounge without hurry.

Black trousers that skim my hips, a sleeveless silk blouse with a plunge that makes men think of sin. No bra. Hair pinned with the lacquered sticks I only wear when I want to be impossible to ignore.

I feel the air shift the moment he sees me — the slight stiffening of his spine, the breath caught halfway in his chest.

I don’t greet him.

I don’t ask permission.

“Come.”

He stands without question. That’s my first victory of the day.

⸻

We don’t go to a suite. I don’t want this to feel like comfort.

We go to one of those first-class shower rooms — marble, chrome, discreet. A space meant for cleansing, which makes what I’m about to do inside it all the more sacrilegious.

I lock the door. Hang my blazer on the hook. Unbutton my trousers slowly, watching him in the mirror as the silk blouse shifts over my skin. His eyes follow every movement, his lips parting slightly when the waistband slips over my hips.

No small talk. No wasted words.

One piece at a time, I strip until I’m barefoot, bare-breasted, completely exposed. The way his pupils dilate tells me he’s thinking about every time I told him no.

I open the shower door, turn the water on. Steam coils upward immediately, curling around my skin.

I step inside and finally look at him.

“Well?”

⸻

The steam makes everything closer, thicker. Droplets run down the curve of my back, clinging to my ass before sliding lower.

He steps in. I feel the heat hit him before he even touches me.

He inhales — not just the steam, but me. Even scrubbed clean, my scent lingers in ways he’ll never be able to wash away.

I tip my face up into the spray, letting it soak my hair. A drop slides down from my collarbone to my breast, and I watch his eyes track it like prey.

He reaches for me.

“No hands.”

⸻

I turn, pressing my back to the marble. Lift one leg and rest it on the bench, opening myself completely. The water makes me glisten, but the slick between my thighs is mine.

“You’re going to eat me,” I tell him. My voice is a blade — smooth, unshakable.

“And then you’re going to kiss me goodbye.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he drops to his knees.

⸻

The first press of his mouth against me sends a sharp jolt through my stomach. I can’t help the gasp that escapes. I grip the edge of the bench behind me, letting him start slow — long strokes of his tongue, gentle suction on my clit, each movement deliberate, like he’s memorizing me.

My leg trembles, but not from weakness — from restraint.

When I slide my hand into his hair, my nails skim his scalp before pressing him deeper. I feel the hum of his moan against me.

“Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

⸻

The water drums against my shoulders, the heat melting any trace of the outside world. His tongue works me in patterns he’s learned by heart — the swirls, the flicks, the perfect pressure that makes my breath catch.

I grind against his mouth now, using him, knowing he won’t care how desperate he looks doing it.

My thighs close around his head. My back arches against the marble.

“Fucking yes—”

The orgasm rips through me. My hips jerk; my voice breaks. It’s messy, wet, ungraceful, but I don’t hide it. I want him drenched in it.

⸻

When I open my eyes again, he’s looking up at me — face soaked, lips shining.

I slide down the wall until I’m in his lap, straddling him, close enough that our noses almost touch. My hands rest on his shoulders as I kiss him.

⸻

It’s not violent. It’s not rushed.

It’s deep. Lingering. Final.

My tongue slides against his slowly, tasting my orgasm on his lips.

My breath is still uneven, but the kiss is steady — a seal, a closure, something he’ll replay long after I’m gone.

When I pull back, I keep my voice soft.

“This is the last time.”

His eyes flicker — protest, disbelief — but all he does is nod.

⸻

I towel off slowly, each motion deliberate, each button of my blouse a farewell he won’t be able to stop watching.

He stays seated, silent, as I dress.

At the door, I pause.

“Don’t try to find me again. You’ll only ruin the memory.”

I leave without looking back.

And I know he’ll never forget the sound of me walking away.