Shut Up And Kiss Me (gxg)

48. No F*cking Allowed

     I WAS PRETTY SURE I HAD JUST had hate-sex with Monroe. Did that qualify? Passionately slamming her against the wall? Aaron's shattered baby picture in the foyer was proof. I'd come to talk to her and instead . . . 

     Instead we'd ended up fucking on the stairs. And the shower. And, later, the bed. Also on the floor. It was nighttime now (Aaron was staying overnight in the hospital, and so was Mr. Andersen), and Monroe was currently sizzling tomato sauce on a pan. 

     "Do you need helping making the pasta?" I asked. 

     She turned around, snaking her arms around my waist, and murmured, "No," against my lips. I was sitting on the white island counter, legs dangling over the edge. 

     Talk. That's what you came here for. 

     That seemed like so far away, when I'd gathered up my jacket and my keys, driving over with what felt like an an invincible ferocity. Who would have thought we'd end up having sex instead? 

      "Monroe?" I tangled my fingers in her soft black hair. "I . . ."

      "Don't talk, Talia." Don't ruin this. 

      What was more important, fucking Monroe or getting the truth out of her? I was so turned on by her warm, sweet breath I very nearly gave in. Instead, I said, "We really need to talk."

      She trailed kisses down my chest, unbuttoning the silky shirt she'd given me. Her fingers gently spread my legs wider, giving her access to the wetness already there. 

      "The tomato sauce," I gasped, as she pressed her mouth to the inside of my thigh, as softly as I imagined butterfly wings would feel like. "It'll burn."

      "The tomato sauce is fine, Talia."

      I gripped the edge of the marble countertop with white fingers. Panting already. How could one girl have this much power over me? 

      "We . . . really need to talk," I said, but now I was hardly listening to myself. I slid my fingers into Monroe's silky hair, still holding onto the counter for dear life. Her tongue swirled over, into me, and my eyes rolled back. The intensity of warmth was enough to make my bare legs shake around her. "Oh, God, yes."

      Monroe's green eyes flicked up towards me, shadowed by the frame of her long lashes. "Come for me, Talia," she whispered, and the pressure was too much. My back arched, and stars flickered in and out, dancing on the kitchen ceiling. 

      "Is this your plan?" I said, still out of breath as I slid off the countertop and into her arms. "Fuck me senseless? So we don't have to deal with any of our issues?"

      She pretended to think about it, a luscious smile sharpening her raw, pinkened lips. "As if you haven't been doing the same? I'm not the only one to blame."

      She . . . was right. I had initiated half as many of our rounds, if not more. It was so unfortunate having a girlfriend who was ridiculously beautiful. I just couldn't help wanting her, all the damn time.

      Girlfriend. She wasn't my girlfriend anymore. The thought was a cold shock, dousing me from head to toe. I pulled back slightly from Monroe, examining her face―her stupid, beautiful face.

      "You have a service for . . . hurting people," I said.

      And . . . I'd done it. I'd cracked the façade, the glue holding us together. These fragile, hopeless pieces, tethering us. Gone. It couldn't have lasted forever, I thought, but it didn't console me like it should have. Every bit of happiness I'd felt with Monroe was forever. She had always been forever.