She Left Without Goodbye

**Author's note:**

Five years ago, Roxy Devlin walked away from a man who wanted more than she was willing to give. Now, back in Brighton for one night, the past catches up with her in a place she didn't expect. What follows is lust, memory, anger - and a night that neither of them, despite everything, ever stopped needing.

This is a story about unfinished business, raw attraction, and the difference between love... and something deeper, dirtier, and harder to walk away from.

Roxy Devlin debuts here. She's strong, independent, sexually liberated. She doesn't need saving - and she never plays by anyone else's rules. She fucks on her terms... but this time, those terms might just change.

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The hotel rooftop bar always felt a little too cool for its own good. It was all matte black finishes, sculptural lighting, and house beats pressed in slow and steady, like a lover's hand. The heaters glowed amber, casting shadows on polished floors, while the breeze from the sea teased against the glass balustrades.

Roxy Devlin fit the space like a glove.

She moved with easy power - slow, deliberate steps in pointed white stilettos. Her black leather pencil skirt clung like shrink-wrap, hugging the full curve of her arse and thighs, every stride daring the seams to split. Her blood-red silk blouse was cut low and clung tight, her natural breasts shifting visibly beneath it.

She was late thirties, but it didn't show in the ways anyone might expect. Her body was curvy and confident. Lived in and loved.

Her skin still glowed from the day and her full lips, painted red, curled like she knew exactly what you were thinking, and frankly didn't give a shit.

Her light brown hair, laced with soft blonde highlights, was pulled into a high ponytail that swung with each step. She'd been told she had the kind of face that carried stories, whatever that really meant. She knew men found her attractive - but modesty, or maybe just good sense, stopped her from believing it.

As she walked the long, light overcoat she was wearing billowed behind her, loose and open. Framed by the light behind her it gave her the faint appearance of a superhero or perhaps a woman who'd set the world on fire and walked away unscathed.

She hadn't been back to Brighton in a long time. Not really. Not since him.

Too many ghosts. Too many memories that weren't quite finished enough to forget.

But this place, this hotel, she liked. Urban and chic in all the right ways, and just a little bit smug. It was the sort of place that said expensive without being ostentatious. Tonight, she was here ahead of a private event she'd be hosting tomorrow. Not her day job, but her evening one - her side hustle: running kink and fetish events for like-minded men and women who were not short of money but demanded discretion.

She'd stumbled into it by accident - a favour for a friend, at first. But it had been lucrative. And she was good at it. Enjoyed it too, if she was honest.

So that's where she was now: life coach by day, kink event hostess by night. She sometimes wondered what her daytime clients - all personal goals and growth - would think of her nighttime ones. Probably not so different, she'd discovered. Just... different kinds of goals. And very different kinds of growth.

Heads turned as she approached the bar - some subtle, some blatant. Two men at the far end adjusted their postures, one already leaning in her direction.

She ordered a double gin, no garnish but extra ice. Took her drink and made her way towards a quiet table looking out towards the sea.

A younger guy in a blazer slid in beside her, asked if she was waiting on someone. She dismissed him with a flat smile and a turned shoulder. Another tried to offer her a drink. She held up the one in her hand like a trophy.

Normally, she might've played. Let her outfit do the talking. Toyed with one until he squirmed. But tonight, she wasn't in the mood. Her mind was on tomorrow. And, if she was honest, on a name she didn't like saying out loud anymore.

Jay.

She hadn't thought about him in months. Maybe years. Not properly. But being back in this city had knocked something loose.

A younger man, more than ten years her junior, an artist and eager to learn. They'd fucked like animals for a summer - every few nights, sometimes back-to-back. Cheap hotels. His studio. His floor. Her mouth. Her rules.

She led and he'd followed - gladly. Greedy for it. It had been fun, no doubt. Addictive even.

Until it stopped.

She'd stopped it with no warning. Just vanished and stopped finding excuses to work in Brighton. She could feel it getting hot, too hot, and she'd always preferred control to chaos.

So she ghosted him. Deleted his number and nuked his socials. Clean and final, no turning back.

She hadn't expected to think of him now. Not after all this time. It had been nearly five years...

Roxy swirled the last of her drink, lips pursed, irritation flickering behind her eyes. She hated that her mind had gone there. That name. That memory. That was the past, and the one thing Roxy knew with absolute certainty was that nothing good comes from raking over what's done.

She set the glass down on the table a little harder than intended.

"Careful," said a voice to her right. "That looked like it was about to bolt."

She turned and looked at the man who had spoken.

Tall and lean. Late twenties, maybe. Tanned like he surfed or at least faked it well. Dark blond hair swept back, smile just short of cocky. A smart shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, cream chinos and deck shoes.

Roxy raised an eyebrow. "Didn't realise it had legs."

"It doesn't," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. "But I do."

She didn't smile, but she didn't say no either. Just nodded to the seat.

"Ten minutes," she said, "unless you bore me sooner."

He grinned, flagged the bartender, and ordered two drinks without asking. Negronis.

She liked that. He wasn't shy, and he wasn't trying too hard. Just enough charm and to be noticed, just enough edge to be interesting.

They talked. Nothing deep - just light chat and banter. She didn't offer much, and he didn't push. He let her set the tone. When he complimented her, it was light but genuine. Just honest appreciation, said like a man used to being around women he didn't need to impress.

"You've got a vibe," he said after their second drink. "The kind that makes it hard to sit still."

"Oh yeah?" she said. "That your line?"

He leaned in, a little closer. "No. My line's this: there's a bar down on the beach. One of my favourites. Outdoor, lights, DJ spinning. You should come. One drink. One dance. Maybe more."

"Maybe more?" she asked.

He shrugged casually. "Up to you."

She watched him for a moment. Normally, she'd be halfway through unbuttoning him by now - or she'd have cut him dead and sent him on his way with his tail between his legs.

But tonight wasn't normal. She wanted to stop thinking. To stop remembering. To stop feeling.

"Alright," she said, finishing her drink in one easy pull. "Lead the way."

***

The wind had picked up down by the seafront. It wasn't cold, but it didn't feel like August either. The wind was insistent, tugging at her overcoat and flicking strands of hair loose from her ponytail. Her heels clicked sharp against the paving stones. He walked beside her, hands in pockets, body loose, like someone with nothing to prove.

The beachfront bar came into view. It was all string lights and low amber bulbs. The bass rolled out across the promenade. People moved in clusters outside - laughing, kissing, smoking, dancing. Inside a DJ in a sleeveless tee spun a house track that had hips grinding and hands reaching skyward, the dance floor spilling out and across the sand.

They pushed through the crowd to the bar. He ordered them something cold and clean - vodka sodas with lime - and passed her one.

They drank and people watched for a few minutes before he leaned in. "You dance?" he asked.

She gave him a withering look. "Of course I dance."

He offered his hand, but she didn't take it. She just walked into the throng of the crowd. He followed.

The music wrapped around them - all beat and bass, no lyrics, just rhythm. Roxy closed her eyes for a second, let the pulse soak into her skin. She started to move - hips first, then shoulders, arms swaying with slow intent. Not dancing at him. Just dancing. Just being. Just letting her body take the night back.

He moved well, she'd give him that. He came close enough to be felt, but not close enough to assume.

She gave him her back. Rolled her hips into his. Let her hair fall. Let the lights hit her skin.

And for five minutes, ten, maybe more, she forgot Jay.

She was just Roxy Devlin on the dance floor and having a great fucking time.

The music shifted to something deeper. One of those tracks that slowed the whole crowd down, bodies moving in sync, strangers pressing close in the strobe haze.

Roxy kept moving.

Her back to him, hips rolling in time to the bass. Her overcoat had long since come off, leaving nothing to distract from the way that black leather pencil skirt clung to her every step, every sway, every curve. Her cherry-red silk blouse was sticking slightly to her back now, glinting under the low lights.

She felt him behind her - close, but still unsure. So she made the choice for him.

She reached back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged his hand just above the curve of her arse. Pressed it there and held it.

The leather was cool under his fingers. Then she turned slowly, but with a purpose, until they were face to face. Their bodies brushed. His hand stayed where it was.

She leaned up, lips grazing his ear.

"You gonna kiss me," she said, voice low, "or just stare like you're trying to answer an exam question?"

He froze for a split second, then moved.

His lips met hers - tentative, almost reverently, tasting her like she might vanish. It wasn't bad. A little shy and a bit sweet perhaps. But he pulled back, searching her face for a read.

She gave it to him with a look that said yes without ever having to say it.

His hand curled harder around her waist. He kissed her again, this time with no hesitation.

His mouth pressed to hers with purpose, tongue sliding across her bottom lip, hand gripping leather like he wanted to unzip it right there and then.

Roxy let him have the kiss. She let it linger, let herself sink into it, just for a beat.

The kiss deepened.

His hand pressed firmer at her waist, then slid lower, fingertips edging along the seam where leather met the swell of her arse. His tongue flicked against hers now with more urgency and less finesse. The kind of kiss that tried to become something it hadn't earned.

She didn't stop him - not yet.

She rolled her hips once, slow and deliberate, just enough to feel it. His cock, hardening. He moaned into her mouth.

And that was enough.

Roxy pulled back.

"You're keen," she said coolly, brushing a fingertip across his lower lip. "Easy, tiger."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already stepping away, gathering her coat from the nearby railing, folding it over her arm.

"I'm going to powder my nose," she said. Then, with a wink, "Try not to explode while I'm gone."

She turned without waiting for a reply, the crowd parting just enough for her to pass.

She was halfway to the bathroom when, suddenly, there was impact.

A body collided lightly with hers from the side. A man, turning away from the bar too quickly, his drink sloshing onto the floor.

"Shit, sorry..." he began.

Roxy turned toward him, eyes already sharp with that don't push it energy. Then she froze.

He looked up. Recognition flickered. Slow and subtle at first, then something more. Realisation.

Jay.

He looked older - but better. More filled out. Still lean, but with broader shoulders. Facial hair now, and that same mop of hair slightly shorter, styled more deliberately. He wore it well.

He looked shocked, like she was a ghost in high heels.

"Rox...?" His voice thick with questioning intonation.

She said nothing, just stared for half a second too long.

The music throbbed behind them. People swirled past, oblivious.

She glanced down at the spill, then back up at him. Raised an eyebrow.

"Still messy," she said, and carried on walking towards the bathroom.

The bathroom was quiet - too quiet, really. Just the faint thump of bass through the tiled walls and the soft hum of white strip lighting.

Roxy locked the door behind her and exhaled hard. Fuck.

She hadn't come here to see him. She hadn't even wanted to think about him. And now Jay fucking stood there like a ghost that had been lifting weights and learning how to dress.

She moved to the mirror, unfastened her coat and studied herself. Flushed cheeks. Hair tousled, lipstick slightly smudged from kissing what's-his-name.

She popped her compact, reapplied slowly, then her lipstick - blood red again, deliberate and vicious.

"I don't need this," she said to her reflection, though her reflection didn't answer.

She snapped the compact shut and made her way back out to the bar.

Back on the floor, the music had shifted again. It was something faster now, the kind that made hips grind harder and people forget who they came with.

Roxy spotted her guy. Still waiting, hands in pockets, probably wondering if she was coming back.

She didn't hesitate. She walked straight past Jay without looking.

Strode up behind the guy, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself into his back - hard enough to make sure he felt it.

He turned, first surprised and then delighted, as she pulled him in and kissed him.

His hands found her waist, then drifted up, bold fingers against the underside of her tits through the blouse. She didn't stop him.

She reached down, felt the firm bulge in his trousers and gave it a slow, teasing stroke.

"Go get us two more drinks," she whispered into his ear. "And don't take long."

He nodded, already hooked, and disappeared into the crowd.

She moved to the railing, facing the sea, coat falling open just enough to let the cool air hit. The city shimmered behind them, lights bouncing off the water, the bass a low throb beneath her heels.

Jay appeared beside her.

Not facing her and not touching her. Just there. Looking out.

He said nothing at first. Then: "Still enjoy winding boys up, huh?"

Roxy didn't flinch. Just laughed.

"Still a smug little shit with no filter."

He smirked. "Of all the bars in Brighton..."

"... You're the last person I wanted to see," she countered firmly.

Jay turned now, leaning one elbow against the rail, watching her.

"If I'm the last person you wanted to see, I must've been on your mind."

She scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Too late."

She looked at him. Really looked.

"Don't be a dick."

He grinned. "Who's the guy? Looks barely house-trained."

"He's nobody," she said, eyes still on the sea. "Yet."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "This summer's project?"

She turned to him, voice low and sharp. "I'm done with projects. I'm done with boys."

He nodded slowly. "Fair. You want a man now."

Her mouth curled. "Exactly."

Jay stepped a little closer, his voice softer now. "Well... you look incredible."

She let that hang for a second.

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

They stood there a moment longer, heat buzzing between them like static.

Then the guy returned, two drinks in hand.

Roxy turned to greet him, hand on his arm.

"This is Jay," she said smoothly. "Old friend. Haven't seen him in years."

The guy looked uncertain. Roxy smiled.

"We're just going to catch up," she added, slipping one drink from his hand. "I'll find you in a little while, yeah? It won't take long."

The guy hesitated, then nodded and drifted off into the crowd.

Jay leaned in, eyes still locked on hers. "Will you?"

She sipped her drink, eyes glinting. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not."

They stood side by side at the edge of the railing just enough distance between them to say I'm fine - just enough tension to scream I'm not.

Jay sipped his drink, then exhaled like he'd been holding something back all night.

"You really ghosted me," he said, not quite looking at her. "Not even a slow fade. Just... fucked off."

Roxy didn't answer at first. The sea was easier to look at. Safer.

Then, softly: "Yeah. I did."

"Why?"

She gave a short laugh - not cruel but bitter at the edges. "Because it was getting complicated, and I don't do complicated."

He turned now, looking at her directly. That artist's gaze - intense and sharp.

"It was always complicated."

"No," she said, finally looking back at him. "It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to be a fuck. A hot, sweaty, no-strings, take-my-mind-off-shit fuck."

Jay smiled faintly. "You don't walk away from just a fuck and delete someone like a bad habit."

She didn't deny it.

He stepped a little closer.

"I think you liked that I was yours," he said. "That you got to call the shots. That I'd do anything you wanted."

Roxy's voice was quieter now. "Yeah. I did."

"And when it started to feel like more..."

"I ran," she said, cutting him off. "Because I don't do messy."

Jay studied her, the years between them hanging heavy in the air. His eyes moved across her face, lingering just a second too long on her mouth.

"You still don't?"

She smirked. "Messy's fine. As long as I'm the one making the mess."

That pulled a laugh from him. Not loud but real.

Seconds passed. Then Jay leaned in just enough for her to feel it. "You've thought about me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You have. I can see it."

"You're mistaking recognition for regret."

He tilted his head. "So what happens now?"

She didn't answer right away. Just held his gaze, lips parted slightly, like a word might slip out without her permission.

Then, cool as ice: "Nothing happens now. Nothing"

Jay's eyes narrowed, a flicker of the man she remembered - the one who followed orders but always watched for an opening.

He stepped back.

Roxy took another sip of her drink, eyes back on the horizon. Her pulse had quickened, but her face didn't show it.

"Goodnight, Jay," she said, without looking.

He hesitated. Then leaned in just enough that only she could hear it.

"We'll see."

Roxy returned to the dance floor like nothing had happened. The same wicked sway of hips. But inside she seethed. Cocky little prick, she thought.

She slid back into the space beside the guy she came with - took his hand, spun herself into him, let her body melt into the bass.

He was all in. Hands on her waist. Mouth on her neck. Hungry.

But she wasn't, not fully at least. Because he was still there.

Jay.

Standing near the bar, nursing a drink he wasn't really drinking. Watching her without watching. Not like a creep in the shadows. But every so often their eyes locked. Not for long. Just a moment.

She looked away first.

The guy whispered something in her ear. She laughed, but didn't really hear it. Let her hand slide down his chest, just enough to keep the illusion alive.

Jay moved toward the exit, slowly and without any hint of regret.

She didn't look at first, but she somehow sensed him go. Then glanced - once - and saw his back.

Gone.

She felt a twist under her ribs.

Relief, maybe. Or perhaps something else.

She turned back to the guy - ran a fingertip along his jaw.

"Gonna take me home?" she asked, lips brushing his ear. "Or just stand here with a hard-on?"

He blinked, surprised but excited.

"Yes. Yes..."

"Good," she said. "Because whoever heard of a five-year-old rebound fuck?"

He laughed nervously and let her lead him out into the night.

***

His place was small and forgettable - laminate floors, rented furniture, that stale air of too many takeaways and not enough windows opened.

Roxy didn't care.

She didn't come for conversation. She'd come for control. To take some control back.

The second the door shut, she shoved him back against it, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and kissed him hard. Her tongue silenced his surprise while her body did the rest.

His hands were all over her - clumsy, eager, worshipping her curves. She let him. Her coat slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. The leather skirt was halfway up her hips before they even hit the bedroom.

He tried to undress her but she slapped his hands away.

"I said," she growled, pushing him onto the bed, "you're not in charge here."

He moaned obediently.

She straddled him, dragging her blouse off slowly, letting her tits bounce free - nipples already hard.

He stared. She ground her hips into his groin, felt his cock pulsing under his jeans.

"Get them off," she said.

He scrambled.

She stayed still, watching.

When he was naked, she moved with poise and experience - pulling a condom from her bag, tearing the wrapper open with her teeth. She rolled it onto him with the kind of efficiency that said this isn't love, it isn't even lust. Just necessary.

She sank down onto him. He gasped and bucked.

She moved slowly, grinding, using him.

But, in her mind... it was Jay.

Jay's weight pinning her down. Jay's hands gripping her hips. Jay's cock filling her just right - not because of size or skill, but because it had always felt like he fit her.

Her pussy tensed, not for the body beneath her, but for the one burned into her memory.

She bounced harder, rougher, her nails dragging down his chest. He cried out. Tried to thrust up.

"Stay still," she hissed.

His face twisted - overwhelmed, too close.

"Fuck... i'm gonna..."

"Don't you dare cum," she snapped. "Not yet."

But he did.

She dressed in silence, ignoring the guy's half-hearted offer to make tea or call her a cab.

"I need air," she said simply.

And walked out the door.

***

The door clicked shut behind her, but the air still felt stale.

Too quiet. Somehow too close.

Roxy pulled her coat tight across her body, not from cold - it wasn't that - but to hold something in, or maybe hold something out.

She didn't wait for a cab.

She needed to walk.

Needed the air. The nothingness.

The city at this hour was a different beast - quieter, sure, but still alive. Pavements glistening with earlier rain. Shopfronts dark. The hum of distant bass spilling from late bars and sticky clubs she wouldn't be caught dead in... unless she was really desperate. Her heels clicked against the concrete, a steady rhythm that matched her breathing.

She walked fast at first. Like she had somewhere to be. Like she was walking away from that bed, from that underwhelming cock, from average sex and the silent exit.

But slowly, her pace shifted. It slowed.

Because she didn't know where she was going. Or, maybe worse, she wasn't thinking about where she was going.

Her brain was somewhere else entirely.

Jay's fingers in her hair. The way he used to grab her arse when she told him harder. The way he'd wait - let her take what she wanted first - and then flip the script, pin her down, and fuck her until she was swearing at him just to stay sane.

She swore under her breath.

"This is so fucking stupid," she muttered.

The streets changed around her. Familiar buildings. Familiar smells. A curve in the road she'd taken a dozen times before.

And then she saw it.

Jay's street.

She stopped walking. The breeze tugged at her coat, her blouse still unbuttoned slightly from earlier, cleavage catching the soft amber light from a streetlamp above.

She didn't even remember turning this way.

Hadn't meant to. Had she?

She stood for a full minute. Just... breathing. Just looking at the building.

Was he still there?

What if he wasn't?

What if he was?

She didn't need this. She didn't want this. And yet her body moved.

One slow step. Then another.

Until she was there. At the front door. His door.

The buzzer looked the same.

Her finger hovered above it.

"This is mad," she whispered, before pressing it.

The buzzer gave a dull click. Then nothing. No hum of a door unlocking. No voice on the intercom. No movement behind the glass.

Roxy stood there, hand still raised, breathing just a touch faster than she should have been.

What the fuck am I doing?

The question wasn't rhetorical. It was real and loud in her skull. Echoing.

She stepped back from the door like it had burned her. Looked up at the building - the familiar windows, cracked lintels, chipped paint.

Was it even still his?

She let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.

She could walk away now. Turn around. Forget she ever walked this street. Pretend it was a wrong turn. A late-night lapse. A drunk mistake.

She actually took one step back.

Started to turn, and that's when she heard it.

Click. The latch on the door releasing.

***

The latch gave.

That quiet, unmistakable clunk.

The door didn't swing open. It just... released.

Roxy stood there, heartbeat pressing at her throat. The street behind her still empty.

She hesitated. Just long enough to ask herself the question again.

What the fuck am I doing?

Then she pushed.

The door opened with a low creak, and she stepped inside the building. Familiar corridor. The same scuffed tile. The same chipped wall to the right where someone once dragged a bike handle too hard.

His bike was still there.

Same battered frame. Same sticker on the crossbar.

The air smelled faintly of paint, dust, and something green. Herbs, maybe. Sage and Basil. The scent tickled something in her gut.

She walked the corridor slowly, coat trailing behind her, heels echoing on the concrete. The stairs were exactly how she remembered - bare, grey, chipped at the edges. She ran her hand along the railing without thinking.

Up.

Second floor.

End unit.

She reached the door.

It was ajar. Just a sliver.

Light spilled into the stairwell - flickering, the colour of candle flame and low lamps. She pushed gently.

The door opened with barely a sound, and she stepped into the past.

It hadn't changed.

The warehouse space was still raw and open-plan - exposed brick, iron beams, massive leaded windows spilling moonlight across the floor. The furniture was mismatched but intentional: deep leather chairs, vintage trunks used as tables, old lamps, canvases leaning against the walls.

And the artwork. His artwork.

Soft watercolours of rooftops and rivers. Sunrises smeared in orange. A cityscape washed in grey. Small pieces, big pieces. Some hung. Most not. Most just... there. Part of the space.

And then - just like it had been all those years ago - that one.

Her.

She hadn't known he kept it. How could she? But there it was - propped against the wall next to the bookshelf, unframed, like it had never left its place.

Roxy, naked.

Reclining on that bed, same sheets, same light spilling across her body in strokes of colour. Her breasts soft, her thighs strong, her expression half-sated, half-challenging. The way he'd seen her. The way he'd loved her.

She turned and there he was.

Jay.

At the kitchen counter.

Wearing a loose grey t-shirt. Hair slightly messier than earlier. Barefoot.

He was pouring two glasses of red wine.

He looked up and met her eyes.

Just that steady, deliberate gaze that once saw through all her bullshit.

He set the bottle down.

Picked up both glasses and walked toward her in silence.

***

He didn't speak.

Just held the two glasses in his hands and looked at her - not like a man surprised, but like a man who knew exactly what this was.

Roxy stood in the doorway, coat still open, blouse rumpled, breath caught somewhere between her throat and her chest.

She didn't want to be here. Except she did.

She didn't want him to be here. Except... she really did.

She noticed again how Jay looked older. Not dramatically. Just enough. The angles of his face more defined. The jawline more certain. A light beard where once there'd been smooth skin.

Still lean, still loose in his posture, still Jay. But now there was something steadier, something more grounded. The boy she used to fuck like life depended on it was now a man she didn't quite know how to read.

And that was infuriating.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking from his to the wine glasses, then back.

"You expecting someone?" she asked, voice low, but sharp. "Didn't ask who was at the door. Left this one open."

He laughed. "Who else was it gonna be?"

The answer landed like a slap. She flinched, inwardly. Roxy fucking Devlin is not predictable.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're a cocky bastard."

"Only when I'm right."

He stepped closer.

The glasses clinked softly as he set them down on the console table beside the door.

Then - without question - he kissed her.

Light. Just lips brushing lips. Familiar. Not assuming, testing instead.

Roxy stepped back. A pace or maybe two. Breath quick, heart quicker.

"Why are you here, Rox?"

The question hit harder than she expected. Not what are you doing here - but why are you here.

And she didn't have an answer. Not one she could say out loud at any rate. Not one she wanted to face.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

She closed the distance with with urgency - grabbing his t-shirt, pulling him into her mouth, kissing him like it had been five years of pressure building behind her ribs. Her tongue claimed his. Her nails dug into his back. Her body slammed into him like a door blowing open in a storm.

Jay groaned into her mouth, one hand sliding into her hair, the other already pressing against her arse.

The wine glasses wobbled, though neither of them noticed.

***

Roxy didn't remember getting from the door to the kitchen.

She just remembered him pulling her coat from her shoulders, yanking open the last buttons of her blouse, his mouth crashing back onto hers like they'd both been starving.

Her bra barely made it off. She wriggled free of it while grinding her body against his, nipples brushing his t-shirt, the friction sending sparks through her spine.

He grabbed her arse, hard - harder than she remembered - lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the counter.

"Still bossy?" he growled into her neck, biting her just below the ear.

"Still obedient?" she fired back, legs wrapping around his waist.

His hands slid up her thighs, catching on the hem of her leather skirt, dragging it up and over her hips.

He kissed her again, deeper now, and she responded with everything. Her tongue fought his. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then shoved under his t-shirt, nails raking across his back.

Clothes vanished - his shirt, her skirt, his jeans.

When she reached for his cock, her breath hitched. He was thicker than she remembered.

She stroked him once, slow and deliberate.

"Been saving this for me?" she asked, teasing.

Jay grabbed her wrist. Held it still. "You have no fucking idea."

Then he spun her and bent her over the counter.

Roxy gasped as the cold metal pressed against her stomach. His hand on her lower back, his other gripping his cock, lining it up. The tip pushed against her waiting entrance, teasing.

She pushed back as he entered her.

She moaned - not from pain, but from the easy stretch, the sheer fucking fullness of him.

The counter rocked and the fridge rattled.

He fucked her like a man who'd waited too long and didn't care if the neighbours heard. Thrust after thrust, slamming into her, hands digging into her hips like he never planned to let go.

Roxy clawed at the countertop, moaning, hair swinging, tits bouncing with every slap of skin.

She came without warning - the kind of orgasm that came from nowhere. It stole her breath, rolled through her thighs and tore a growl from her throat.

But he didn't stop.

He pulled out, dragged her off the counter, spun her around, and lifted her onto the cool surface - his mouth on her nipples now, sucking, biting, while his cock found her again and pushed back in.

Her legs clamped tight around him. Her arms locked behind his neck.

They were fucking like animals - wild, messy, but perfect.

He pulled out again, dropping to his knees. Tongue on her clit.

She nearly collapsed.

"Fuck... Jay... shit..."

She held the back of his head, grinding herself against his face until she came again, wetter this time, her body trembling.

He stood, hard as ever, lips slick.

She pushed him to the floor, straddled him, and rode him hard. Her tits bounced. Her eyes locked on his.

He grunted beneath her, hands squeezing her arse, thrusting up into her, letting her take it just how she needed.

She slammed her hips down, over and over, faster now. Her third orgasm ripped through her. She screamed. Bit his lip. Kept going.

Then the sofa.

They tumbled onto it, her on her back, legs over his shoulders, Jay driving into her like he was possessed.

He leaned forward, wrapped his arms under her, and kissed her - properly this time - as his cock twitched inside her.

"I'm gonna cum," he grunted.

"Inside," she said, voice hoarse. "Don't stop."

A thrust. Then another. Then he growled into her throat as his cock throbbed, pumping thick spunk deep inside her.

They lay still for a moment or two. Sweaty and breathless. Fucked-out and feral.

She laughed first.

"I should never have rung that bell."

Jay kissed her neck, still buried inside her.

"But you did."

***

At some point they made it to the bed.

It was the same bed from the painting. Low and wide, white sheets crumpled now. They lay tangled in each other, naked and still.

Roxy's head rested on his chest, her leg draped across his thigh, fingers idly tracing circles in the faint trail of hair that led down from his sternum. His hand moved slowly across her shoulder, down her arm, back again - like he was memorising the shape of her all over again.

They didn't speak for a long time.

The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable. It held weight and history and memory all in one.

The city buzzed faintly outside the huge windows. A car passed, too fast. Somewhere, music echoed.

Roxy closed her eyes, trying not to let it mean anything.

Then Jay spoke. His voice low, measured but honest.

"There were others," he said.

She didn't move.

"Of course there were," he went on. "I'm not going to pretend I waited, or didn't try to move on."

She nodded faintly against his chest.

"But it was never like this," he said. "Not like you."

He let the words hang.

Roxy's fingers paused.

"You hurt me," he added, softer now. "Not because it ended. I could've handled that. People end things. But you just... left. No message. No goodbye. Just silence."

She finally lifted her head.

Met his eyes.

"And that hurt," he continued, "because I loved you."

A pause.

"I was falling in love with you."

The room felt tighter somehow.

Roxy inhaled, slow and deliberate.

"That was the problem," she said.

Jay frowned, lips parting.

She ran her fingers along his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

"I wasn't in it for love," she said.

She held his gaze. Didn't flinch.

But deep down she knew that wasn't the truth.

The truth was harder.

The truth was she was falling. That she felt it in the weight of his arms and the stupid way he smiled when she came and the way he'd paint her like she was the answer to every question he'd never asked.

The truth was - that scared the shit out of her.

And that was why she left.

Not to protect him. But to protect herself.

***

Roxy held his gaze, steady and calm, the way you might look at someone you know could still hurt you.

Then quietly, "I'm sorry."

Jay didn't answer.

She placed a kiss on his chest. Then another, higher this time, near the hollow of his throat. Her hand moved down, fingers trailing across his stomach, until they wrapped gently around his cock.

It stirred.

She stroked him slowly, head still resting against his shoulder, her lips brushing his jaw now. A kiss. Then another. Tender and lingering.

Jay exhaled. His hands moved to her hips, then up her back.

No hurry now.

Their bodies moved closer, until every inch of skin met and melted. His cock grew hard in her hand, heavy and warm, pulsing gently. She shifted, letting him slide between her thighs - not entering yet, just pressing, feeling eachother.

They kissed.

Not fast or rough, just deep and full of remembering.

His tongue teased hers. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Their chests rose and fell in rhythm, breath syncing, thighs brushing.

Jay rolled them, gently - easing Roxy onto her back, her hair spilling across the pillow, one leg bent, open.

He looked at her, really looked, and then, slowly, he eased inside her.

She gasped at how right it felt.

He didn't move at first. Just held himself there, buried deep, forehead against hers.

Roxy wrapped her legs around his waist, arms pulling him close, their bodies flush.

Then the movement.

Small at first.

A slow, rhythmic push and pull.

His cock dragged along every nerve-ending she had, just enough to keep her panting, never enough to tip her over. Her hips rolled in answer, rising to meet him, matching his pace.

She kissed his neck. Bit his shoulder.

He moaned into her ear, kissed her collarbone, his hand sliding between them to find her clit - just the lightest pressure.

Too light.

She groaned, frustrated.

He smiled against her skin.

"Not yet," he murmured.

She understood.

They edged each other - again and again - staying just shy of the abyss, bodies soaked in sweat and want. Her orgasm built slowly, deep in her belly, cresting then falling, pushed away by his retreat, pulled close again by his thrusts.

She rolled on top of him, grinding down, her breasts heavy and flushed.

She rode him with her eyes locked on his - no smirk or challenge - just a quiet, desperate ache. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs stroking soft circles.

"I'm close," she whispered.

"Then let go," he replied.

She did. Her head thrown back as her orgasm rolled through her, long and deep and silent except for the sounds of her breathing.

Jay followed seconds later - not with a roar or a growl this time - but with a long, shuddering moan, his cock twitching inside her, his arms pulling her down tight against him as he emptied every last drop.

They stayed like that. Still naked, still connected. His penis softening inside her. Neither moved and neither spoke until sleep took hold of them.

***

They woke late.

The room was warm, sunshine filtering through the enormous warehouse windows, casting long streaks across the wooden floor and tangled sheets. The fan in the corner whirred lazily.

Jay stirred first, pressing a kiss into the top of Roxy's shoulder, fingers idly stroking down the curve of her spine. She hummed, shifting against him. Naked still, warm from sleep and sex.

They moved with few words to the shower.

She stepped in first, the water sluicing over her skin in a curtain of steam. Jay followed, arms wrapping around her from behind, their bodies sliding together under the spray. She tilted her head back onto his chest. He kissed her neck, then her shoulder, then lower - his hands roaming, finding her all over again.

Then he dropped to his knees.

She pressed back against the tiled wall, one hand braced against it, the other in his hair as his tongue found her. Slow at first. Then more deliberate. The water fell around them in soft percussion, but Roxy's moans were the rhythm.

She came hard - not like last night's climb - but fast and full, shuddering against his mouth, thighs tensing around his head.

He stood, grinning.

She pulled him in.

They fucked again - this time slow and soaked, face to face. Her back to the wall, his hands firm on her hips, the water mixing with them, his cock gliding deep inside her with aching control. Their mouths didn't part the whole time.

It was somewhere between making love and claiming each other all over again.

***

Later, they dressed without fuss.

Roxy glanced at Jay as he tugged on a faded tee and pushed a hand through his messy hair. She should have left already. Slipped out quietly. Left it as it was.

But she hadn't. She still hadn't.

Jay had found an old bag of her things at the bottom of a wardrobe. She couldn't believe he'd kept it for five years.

Roxy slipped into a simple black midi dress that still fit like new, and white trainers. Sunglasses. Hair up. Jay wore a worn grey tee, jeans, and that same casual energy that made him hard to forget.

They walked the short distance to the deli. One of the old haunts. Still there. Still good. Not a lot had changed. Not the chalkboard menu. Nor the bell that jangled above the door.

He ordered coffee and two almond croissants. She smiled - he remembered.

They took them to the park, a sun-drenched green square two blocks over. The grass was dry and warm under their legs. The wind from the night before had gone, replaced by a lazy August stillness.

They talked.

Not about them. Just chit-chat. Music. Football. The weird old guy feeding the pigeons. The family near the fountain and the kid who kept shrieking with laughter. Easy stuff. Gentle stuff. The kind of conversation that had once come naturally.

Jay watched her, sipping his coffee, smiling at her quips.

Then, eventually, he asked:

"So... what now?"

Roxy didn't answer straight away.

She lay back, sunglasses on, one leg bent at the knee, the breeze teasing a strand of hair from her ponytail.

"There's no happily ever after," she said, flat and honest. "If that's what you're hoping for."

Jay nodded slowly, eyes on her, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"I'm not," he said, hiding his disappointment.

She turned her head, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged.

"I just know I like the way we fit," he said. "Not talking about forever. Just... whatever this is."

She stayed quiet for a long moment.

Then sat up, brushing croissant flakes from her lap.

"I meant what I said last night," she said.

Jay leaned closer. "And I meant what I didn't."

She met his eyes.

He smiled.

"What if we forget love," he said. "And try lust instead? Just lust. Less messy. Clearer rules this time."

Roxy laughed - a low, wicked thing that made a couple of passers-by look twice.

Then she stood, dusted herself off.

"Let's walk, and then you can buy me lunch," she said.

With that they stood and walked into the Brighton sun.