Why are all the bad things always so much easier to believe? It shouldn’t be that way. But it is, every single time. You’re too sensitive, or too worried, they say. You care about all the wrong things. One whisper in your ear and the words tumble through your head like you’re the one who said them first. Hear them enough and they’re pretty much etched on your heart.

There’s no denying it. But right now, I’ve got to try and get past that. Try to believe in the good. Because Lucas has gone to a lot of trouble to create a perfect romantic dinner on the garden terrace, and I can’t find the appetite to even take one bite.

I sit here in this magical space, staring into the eyes of the man who owns my heart, knowing that by this time tomorrow, he’ll have moved on.

Love. That’s the first bad thing I believe. Bad because of the other bad thing—tonight is our last night together, and it already feels like my heart is breaking apart, piece by fucking piece. I can’t afford to be broken.

I need to be strong.

Need to believe the opposite about myself, and become the person that accepts the cold hard truth. There is no possible way Lucas and I can continue our relationship after this night.

“Is the shrimp overdone?”

I set down my fork and shake my head. “It’s perfect.” Just like the salad, and the expensive white wine, and the bouquet of roses at the center of the table. The music is perfect, the sky is perfect, every damn thing is perfect—except it’s also the very opposite of perfect. It sucks.

Lucas doesn’t say it aloud, but I know he feels it too.

“I had the chef prepare tiramisu for desert,” he says.

My lips twitch, trying to smile. “I’ve been here a week and never seen anyone in your kitchen but us.”

“She’s very discrete.”

I let out a sigh. “Well, it’s good that she’s not watching me, or she’d think I didn’t like her cooking. Which would be wrong because—”

“Because everything is perfect…”

I nod. “Right. Perfect”

He sets his fork on the plate, folds the linen napkin on his lap, and puts it beside his plate. His hand closes over mine. “How about we go down to the living room for dessert?”

My eyes skim over the terrace. It’s so beautiful on the rooftop, with the soft sounds of the Jacuzzi water swirling, and the lilt of classical music that sways through the shrubs and flowers.

The moon is a bright glowing ball above us, and to its left, a star streaks across the night sky. If I believed in such things, I’d make a wish, but if it came true, that would be good—and it’s so much easier to believe in the bad.

“Tiramisu by the fireplace?”

“As you wish, darlin’.”

We stretch out on the rug in front of the fire, and Lucas pours us each a glass of fresh wine. I’m trying to find the words to ask him if he’s thought about what happens next, if he wants to find a way for us to be together, but I can’t help thinking that since he hasn’t brought it up, he’s prepared to let this—us—go.

The reality of that stings.

“I love how the firelight dances across your face,” Lucas says.

My cheeks go warm from the blush. It’s still so hard for me to accept his compliments. “Fireplaces are like magic.”

“You’re the one casting spells,” he says.

My breath hitches.

We reach for each other at the same moment. He goes for my face, I put my hands on his ribs. Our mouths connect in the still, electrified air, our lips latching on, soft to soft, warm to warm. My body liquefies.

Drawing me against his chest, Lucas wraps his thick arms around my shoulders and holds me tight as he deepens the kiss. I slide my palms around his sides and slip them down to the small of his back, already working to remove his shirt.

Thrusting deep with his tongue, he drags one hand up to the base of my neck and lets the other fall to the back of my thigh. My leg comes up on his gentle pull. His erection nestles between my thigh and a low groan thrums from the back of his throat.

Gently, he holds me and guides me to the floor, stretching me out beneath him. I choke back the emotion building in my chest. Seven days. This is supposed to be the end, but my heart surges as though it’s just the beginning. It should be the start of us, not the grand finale.

But of course, that’s not something I can believe.

Lucas breaks the seal of our kiss and pulls back enough to run his tongue along the side of my throat. Latching on, he sucks on the cords of my neck and follows them downward until his teeth scrape against the thrust of my collarbone. My fingers thread through his hair and hold him close to my skin, moving him toward my breasts.

My nipples are tight and my heart pumps hard.

He slides the T-shirt over my head and tosses it to the side. My chest heaves as he stares at my breasts, as if memorizing every curve.

Without warning, I reach down into his pants and touch his cock. Upon contact, he hisses through his teeth, a soft sign of approval and encouragement. In just one week, I’ve learned his trigger points and weaknesses, and I’m struck with sadness at the thought of relinquishing that control to someone else.

“God damn you’re beautiful,” he says on a growl.

My chest fills with ridiculous pride. “And you’re the sexist man I’ve ever seen.”

The words snap him into action and he shifts forward, popping his cock free of my palm and positioning himself so that he kneels between my thighs. Dropping his head, he covers one nipple with his mouth and flicks at it with his tongue, while he works blindly at removing my jeans and underwear.

My hips arch toward him, eager for his touch, to feel him deep inside me. I fumble at the button on his pants, unzip the zipper, and shimmy his jeans and briefs over his hips.

He continues sucking, allowing his palms to drift slowly down my ribs and waist. Unable to hold it any longer, I guide his cock into my pussy. Hot. Silky. Slick.

“God, I love the way you feel,” he says.

I sink my teeth into my lip, fighting the urge to tell him that I want him, not just now and like this, but for always. To never feel another man’s cock between my thighs, another man’s mouth on my nipples.

My pussy clenches, holding on tight as his hips rock back and forth, hammering me with the kind of desperation reserved for endings. I look away, not wanting him to see the tears gathering, and close my eyes, try to pretend this isn’t our last night.

With a quick shift of his leg, he splits my thighs farther apart and rolls onto his back so I’m on top. I blink to find him staring at me, a wide grin stretched across his face. My heart stutters a beat.

I brace my hands on his shoulders, swinging my hips from the base of my spine, my stomach curling and releasing as I ride him. With a whispered curse, he grabs on to my thighs and squeezes, causing my muscles to shift under his hold. He draws his hands further up, to the juncture where my legs meet my torso. His thumb finds my clit, and he begins rubbing it in circles.

The intensity is too much.

Thunderous waves of pleasure roll through my body, the climax coming hard and fast. My pussy clenches, breath catches. A whimper crawls out from my throat. We pause, him allowing the last of the orgasm to ripple through me, and then in one swift motion, I turn so that I’m leaning on his legs, balancing my weight on his shins. I use my hand to guide his cock back inside me, still wet and ready.

The sound that comes from his lips is animalistic, primal. And it fills me with the need to please him. Command him. Make him remember this night forever. Am I the only one who sees—feels—how right we are together?

His hands lock on my ankles and I slide up and down his cock until I can feel his orgasm mounting. I move faster, harder. His fingernails dig into my feet, and he cries out, just as another orgasm rolls over me. We climax together, each releasing a guttural scream that echoes throughout my core.

When the pleasure finally subsides, I collapse against him, suddenly self-conscious of my bare ass in the air, my pussy dripping with our combined come. With a little shift, I disengage our connection, and swing my leg over his head and pivot so that I can lie beside him. He curls me under his arm and up against his still-heaving chest.

“You are incredible,” he says, planting a soft kiss on my sweaty forehead.

A lump gathers in my throat, making it impossible to speak. It really hits home that this moment may be our last like this, and I don’t know what to do about the hollowness in my chest, the dull ache that already feels like grief.

I swallow, and find my voice. “Something to remember me by, then?”

“Not likely to forget you, darlin’,’” he says, but before I can ask him what that really means, I feel his muscles relax, and I know he’s drifting off to sleep. I lift my head to find his eyes already closed, lightly fluttering as he enters dreamland.

If only I could be so lucky.

I should leave—just slip out the door while he’s sleeping, a no-fuss end to our seven-day “no strings attached” relationship. But the clock above the fireplace tells me it’s only ten. When it strikes midnight, I’ll go, sneak out like Cinderella at the ball. Until then, I’ll just keep playing make belief…

* * *

Lucas nudges my shoulder. “Darlin’, wake up.”

My eyes flutter open and then close again. Blinking, I finally open them fully. In the hazy blur of not-yet-awake, Lucas appears like an Adonis, his strong, powerful body hovering over mine. For a split second I don’t know where I am, and wonder if I’m dreaming, but everything comes rushing back to me in a flash, and I sit upright, with panic.

My arms cross over my naked chest. I look up at the clock and gasp. It’s ten minutes to midnight. I have to leave.

Lucas puts his hand on my arm. “Whoa. What’s your rush?”

My eyes flit to the time and back. A cool chill seeps into my bones and a shiver rocks through me, hard and fast.

Lucas’s face hardens. “Oh. I see.” He sits upright and runs his hand through his hair. “So, this is it then?”

I pause, waiting for him to say something, to give me a thread of hope that this isn’t over after all. That somehow we’ll figure out a way to be together, for real. Just quit playing pretend and get real. Maybe the words are stuck in his throat or something, because with every passing second, the tight knot of hope in my chest begins to unravel.

My spine stiffens.

I get up off the floor and begin gathering my clothes. I dress quickly, too nervous to look at him, even though I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every move. My muscles feel weary, my emotions hanging on by a thread.

Just go, Eden.

If only it didn’t feel as though my heart was being sliced in two.

Lucas pulls on his pants and follows me to the door. I sling my purse over my shoulder and glance at the brickwork in the kitchen, remembering every meal we shared at the breakfast bar, every conversation over coffee, every scandalous thing we’ve said after too much beer.

I’ve spent almost every night for the past seven days in this apartment. It isn’t mine, logically I know that, but my chest aches as if I’m saying goodbye to home.

How utterly ridiculous.

I blink back tears and inhale deep. “So, I guess I’ll see you around?”

Lucas shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. His eyes are glassy, jaw tense. Disappointment shakes through me. Would it be too much to ask for a hug? Some kind of symbol that he’ll miss this.

Miss me.

“Eden?”

His voice freezes me in place. I hold my breath, hoping, waiting. Hanging on to one last shred of a promise. “Yeah?”

“I had a really great time this week.”

My breath comes out in a slow exhale. “Me too, Lucas.”

Me too.