I wet my lips as my eyes focus on his long, thick cock and how his hand is working over it. I’ve seen this pattern so many times. Watched him make himself come over and over again while on FaceTime when he was at an away game or when we were trying to make each other come by masturbating. He always gives himself two strokes, then rubs his thumb against the head, then back down. It’s the motion that makes him come the hardest and fastest. And from his pace, he’s right there.

I grip the wall, watch intently, and when I hear his first moan, my legs clamp together, ready for round two.

“Fuck me,” he says, his hand flying faster now as his dick looks just about ready.

I want my mouth on his cock so bad. I want to be the one who makes him come. I want to be down on my knees, sucking him, creating the delicious moans that float up through his throat and vibrate against the tiles.

And I’m mad that I’m not.

I’m mad at him.

I’m mad we’re in this position.

I’m mad that this is the last time I will hear him come.

I clench my teeth as tears start to well in my eyes.

I wish there was a way to fix this, to make it all better, but I know that’s not a possibility. I’ve tried. I’ve attempted to focus his attention on us, but it hasn’t worked. Nothing has worked.

“If you’re going to watch, might as well make me come,” he says, pulling me out of my thoughts. He faces me, beads of water cascading down every muscle. Then he turns off the shower and steps out onto the mat, his cock at full mast, his hand gripping the base.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Giving you what you want, a show.” He leans against the closed shower door, dips his head back, and pumps hard on his length. Over and over again until his moans grow louder. His hisses pierce my very soul, and he’s biting on his inner cheek, ready to explode.

I should leave.

I should not be watching this.

Yet, it’s all I can do. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Fuck . . . ah fuck, Myla.”

He gives himself two more strokes, and then he’s coming, his body convulsing, his chest tightening only to expand with air as he takes his first breath after his orgasm.

When his laser-sharp eyes meet mine, he says, “Wish you were between my legs now?”

The audacity.

The arrogance.

And sure, he might be right, and he’s saying that because it’s written all over my face, but he doesn’t have to make a point of it all.

It’s the bitterness in him as well. The anger. The frustration.

It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.

And I know exactly how he feels because I’m feeling it too.

There’s so much animosity, so much that has gone wrong that even though I love this man, I can very well say that I hate him as well.