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 resolution. In the kitchen, the afternoon dragged on slow, almost still, while the smoke from her cigarette, with its sour, lingering smell, traced twisted patterns through the air. I'd been breathing that stench for years like someone accepting an inevitable punishment. The words that came out of her mouth were heavy, wrapped in old complaints that had long lost any fresh meaning. And yet, every syllable hit deep, like they knew exactly where to hurt — she knew me well enough to land her attacks with precision.
My eyes wandered, restless, over the worn walls of the house. It was a modest setup, marked by stories we'd made together. Peeling paint here, scuff marks from dragged furniture there — every flaw was a reminder of two women building something bigger than themselves. And yet, everything there seemed to suffocate along with the smoke from her cigarette.
I asked myself once more, in silence — why am I with her? Love, so worn out and yet still throbbing, wasn't answer enough. Nor was the memory of our shared effort that had shaped that home. Maybe the truth was in the impossible absence. If I erased her from me, crossing her out like she never existed, nothing would be left. The house wouldn't exist. I wouldn't exist. She was the wound, but also the skin that wrapped around me.
"Put out the cigarette, we're at the table. How unpleasant, woman! That's why you complain I don't kiss you anymore — your mouth tastes like ashes."
She lifted her face with a studied slowness, like she wanted to give my words their exact weight:
"At least it gives me some pleasure."
The phrase hung between us like an irreversible sentence. Age, that silent thief, had already shown me a brutal truth: pleasure doesn't come easy anymore — you have to rip it out, force it to remember. Flesh, once eager, now demanded to be tamed, sculpted, molded until it gave in. Touching it wasn't enough. You had to press, scrape, mark, take from it, even if just for a moment, the last drop of youth slipping through the pores. And for how long? How long could I keep ripping that breath of life from her? How long could this love survive the wear and tear of just existing?
Love and passion — no denying it, I'd always loved her, and it was mutual. But the years together, silent and relentless, had pushed the passion away, like tossing something in the street without a second thought. It wasn't just her fault. Maybe it was mine. I, who at some point bought into the comfortable lie that desire was a fragile flower, wilted by the moisture time sucks from bodies. I believed there was no more room for that old, good youthful lust.
But there, sitting at the table, the harsh smell of the cigarette scratching the air, I knew: it was time to try to save what was left. To blow on it and reignite the trembling flame of this love that hung on — nearly extinct, but still there. Like that last drag that lingers before putting out the cigarette for good.
"Get up, woman, get up because I'm gonna make you cum and you're gonna stop smoking this shit cigarette at the table!"
Her eyes overflowed with panic at my sudden madness, but there was something more — a surprised spark that glowed under the tension. Before she could say a word, I grabbed her by the neck, my fingers firm against the delicate curve of her throat. Submissive, she gave in without resistance, like that spot had always belonged to me. And it always had.
She didn't complain. She never did.
The shock slowly gave way to something primal; her eyes lit up again, inflamed by the unexpected. With a rough jerk, I snatched the cigarette from her stained fingers and chipped nails and flung it onto the table. The bastard hissed before sinking into the hot coffee, leaving a trail of ashes in the dark liquid. It was her last one in the pack. She didn't say anything, just looked at me with her mouth slightly parted, her breath caught between submission and desire.
Our bodies crashed together with an urgency that allowed no hesitation, I ripped off every piece of clothing still covering her, until she was naked, all mine. I held onto her breasts — ah, those breasts that time, by some benevolent miracle, had spared, keeping their firmness that had delighted my touch so many times. Every curve of that woman was familiar territory, but never boring. I knew that body well, every line drawn by the memory of desire that resisted the years. And there, in front of me, there was no room for doubt: that body had always been mine. And I, inevitably, was still hers.
Between mashed kisses and greedy squeezes, our bodies molded together in desire. The cold stone contrasted with the scorching heat consuming us, while my mouth gave itself to the wet space between her legs. The wet sounds echoed through the kitchen, each flick of my tongue ripping from her the stifled pleasure, like I was insisting on drawing water from a spring long thought dry.
Her moans, once held back, exploded into hoarse screams that seemed to tear through the silence of the walls. That woman, my woman, opened up to me in pure lust and vulgarity, without shame, without reservations — spread wide and fucked, surrendered to everything I could give and take.
My dominance was total: clit, pussy, cunt, ass. Raw, visceral. Every inch of her was my profane altar. She thrashed, her breath fleeing her lungs, her muscles tense like they were ready to shatter. Her skin trembled in frantic shivers, and my tongue, relentless, danced like it was the last time, bringing her to the peak of herself — where pleasure and abandon blur into pure ecstasy.
The silence afterward — heavy, absolute. The limp body, untouchable, emptied of everything. I'd sucked her dry to the last spark, and now she lay there, dead and smiling, like someone finally surrendering to the void.
"I'm going out to buy your cigarettes."
I crossed the door, keys in hand, her scent clinging to me — sweat, cum, her, everything I hated to love, I carried with me.