Chapter 34
The woman I loved most was also the one who made me bleed with hate — a thick, hot hate that lodged in the corners of my chest, never finding any real outlet. In the kitchen, the afternoon dragged on slow, almost frozen, while the smoke from her cigarette, with its sour, clinging stink, twisted lazy patterns through the air. I’d breathed that stench for years like it was some unavoidable punishment. The words spilling from her mouth came heavy, wrapped in old complaints that had long lost any real bite. And yet, every syllable dug deep, like they knew exactly where to strike — she knew me too damn well for hits that landed just right.
My eyes roamed, restless, over the beat-up walls of the house. It was a humble setup, scarred by the stories we’d built together. Peeling paint in spots, scuff marks from dragged furniture in others — every flaw was a reminder of two women piecing together something bigger than themselves. And still, it all felt like it was choking right alongside her cigarette haze.
I asked myself, one more time, in silence — why the hell am I still with her? Love, so threadbare and yet still kicking, wasn’t enough of an answer. Neither was the memory of all the sweat we’d poured into making that place a home. Maybe the truth lay in the absence I couldn’t stand. If I wiped her out of me, scratched her away like she’d never been real, there’d be nothing left. The house wouldn’t exist. Hell, I wouldn’t exist. She was the wound, but she was also the skin wrapping around me.
“Put out the cigarette, we’re at the table. How unpleasant, woman! That’s why you bitch that I don’t kiss you anymore — your mouth tastes like ashes.”
She lifted her face with that deliberate slowness, like she wanted me to feel the full weight of every word:
“At least it gives me some pleasure.”
The words hung between us like a life sentence. Age, that quiet thief, had already shoved a brutal truth in my face: pleasure doesn’t just come easy anymore — you gotta tear it out, force it to wake the fuck up. Flesh that used to beg for it now had to be broken in, carved up, shaped until it gave in. Touching wasn’t enough. You had to push, grind, brand it, squeeze out that last drop of youth leaking from the pores, even if just for a second. And how long? How long could I keep ripping that spark of life from her? How long could this love hold up against the grind of just existing?
Love and passion — hell yeah, I’d always loved her, and she felt the same. But the years together, quiet and ruthless, had shoved passion aside like trash dumped curbside without a second thought. Wasn’t all on her. Maybe it was me. I was the one who bought into the cozy bullshit that desire was some delicate flower, wilted by the damp rot time sucks out of bodies. I figured there was no room left for that old-school, balls-to-the-wall lust from our younger days.
But right there, parked at the table, the acrid bite of her cigarette scratching the air, I knew: it was time to fight for whatever scraps were left. To huff and puff and try to fan that flickering flame of love hanging on — nearly snuffed out, but still there. Like that final drag you take before killing the cigarette for good.
“Get up, woman, get up ‘cause I’m gonna make you cum and you’re gonna quit smoking this shit at the table!”
Her eyes flooded with panic at my sudden crazy-ass move, but there was more — a surprised spark flickering under the strain. Before she could spit out a word, I grabbed her by the neck, fingers digging firm into the soft curve of her throat. Submissive as ever, she went limp without a fight, like that spot had always been mine to claim. And shit, it always had been.
She didn’t complain. Never did.
The shock faded slow into something raw and animal; her eyes lit up again, burning from the shock of it. With a rough yank, I snatched the cigarette from her stained fingers and chipped nails and chucked it on the table. The fucker hissed before sinking into the hot coffee, trailing ashes through the dark brew. It was the last one in her pack. She didn’t say a thing, just stared at me with her mouth hanging a little open, breath caught somewhere between giving in and wanting it bad.
Our bodies slammed together with an urgency that left no room for second-guessing, I tore off every scrap of clothing still on her until she was bare, all mine. I gripped her tits — ah, those tits that time, in some kind of merciful twist, had left alone, keeping that firmness that had made my hands happy so many times. Every curve on that woman was old territory, but never boring. I knew that body inside out, every line etched by the stubborn memory of desire holding out against the years. And right there in front of me, no doubts: that body had always been mine. And me? I was still hers, like it or not.
Between sloppy kisses and greedy squeezes, our bodies locked into hunger. The cold stone bit against the scorching heat eating us up, while my mouth dove into the slick heat between her thighs. The wet slurp bounced off the kitchen walls, every flick of my tongue yanking out her bottled-up pleasure, like I was dead set on making a long-dry well gush again.
Her moans, held back at first, burst into rough yells that ripped through the quiet of the room. That woman, my woman, spread open for me in pure, filthy bliss, no shame, no holding back — legs wide and fucked raw, handing over everything I could dish out or demand.
I owned her completely: clit, pussy, cunt, ass. Brutal, gut-deep. Every inch was my dirty altar. She lost it, breath heaving out of her chest, muscles coiled tight like they might snap. Her skin shivered in wild waves, and my tongue kept at it, relentless, like it was the end of the world, dragging her to that edge where pleasure and letting go blur into straight-up bliss.
The silence afterward — heavy, total. Her body limp, off-limits, drained dry. I’d sucked her down to the last ember, and now she sprawled there, spent and grinning, like she’d finally given in to the void.
“I’m going out to buy your cigarettes.”
I headed out the door, keys in hand, her scent clinging to me — sweat, cum, her, all the shit I hated loving, I carried it with me.