He lowers me onto the couch and strides toward a connected room. When I hear water running, I assume that it’s a bathroom.

The first time I was here, when he stepped out of the room, I ran like I’d been scalded. Tonight, though, I hate the idea of leaving. I hate the idea of him leaving. I want to stay and soak this up and pretend it’s more than what it is.

I can’t get attached. I just can’t. I repeat what I know is the absolute truth as he returns with a washcloth and offers it to me.

But I am. I think about him all the time, and . . .

“I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out.

He pauses, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and looks at me. “So? Does that really matter?”

His response hits me like a wrecking ball, and I want to scream, Yes, it matters.

What we’re doing here isn’t normal. It isn’t a relationship. There’s no connection between us beyond what happens in this club. I thought I could handle that. Really, I thought I could, which is why I searched for a place like this. But now . . . it feels different. My expectations and reality don’t align.

I didn’t want a relationship. I don’t have time. But I’ve also never been the kind of girl who can have more than a one-night stand and have it mean nothing, not that I have much experience with those situations anyway. It’s either one night of fun and done, or more. This isn’t even friends with benefits, because we’re not friends. To be friends, I’d have to know his name. Hell, to even be a fuck-buddy, I’d have to know his name.

I can’t do this.

As much as I want to tell myself I can, I know it’s a lie.

“Yeah, it really does.”

He studies me as though waiting for me to say something else. “It hasn’t mattered yet.”

I bite down on my lip. “I know. I thought . . . I thought I could do the casual thing. Take my fun and not get attached.”

His expression intensifies. “And?”

“I can’t do this and not need some kind of genuine connection.”

“What we just had.” He gestures between us. “That was a pretty fucking genuine connection. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

I look away, up at the ceiling. “Of course I feel it. But I can’t keep doing this without feeling more. You’re a guy I met randomly in a sex club, for God’s sake. Whatever we’re doing here can never go outside the club. But I can’t keep coming back and then not think about you for the rest of the week. This doesn’t work for me. I’m done.”

His blue gaze sharpens on me. “You think you can walk away now and not want more?”

“That’s the problem! I already want more, and it’s not going to happen.” I school my features and inject confidence into my tone. “So, I’m done. I’m not coming back. It’s over.”

He walks toward me and my muscles tense. Fight or flight. When he crouches low, I curl my fingers into the skirt of my dress to keep from fidgeting.

“Bullshit.”

I glare at him. “No bullshit.”

“You think this is just going to die? That cutting it off like that is going to make you stop thinking about me? It won’t. I’ve got a hell of a lot more experience with this shit than you do, and what’s happening here isn’t your normal weekend club fuck.”

“I don’t need to hear about—”

“Maybe you do. Because I shouldn’t be thinking about you after I walk out this door either. I never think about anyone after I walk out this fucking door. But you . . .” He pauses, and I don’t know what to say.

“So, what does that mean? That you’re going to show up at my front door and take me on a date, and this can be more?”

He rears back like I just told him to go fuck himself. His look of shock is so ridiculous that I can’t help but burst out in absurd laughter. He rises and turns toward the viewing window, giving me his back. I can’t read his posture because I don’t know him at all.

“See? This is why I have to stop. I’m not going to be the girl who has a fling and gets attached to a guy who can’t commit, and then gets her heart broken. I’m a realist. Even if I believed in happily-ever-afters, this story wouldn’t come with one.”

He raises his arms and grips the back of his neck, the muscles of his shoulders and back straining. “You don’t understand.” The words sound like they’re grated out from between clenched teeth. When he spins around, the vein in his forehead pulses. “My life is complicated.”

I shrug like it’s no big thing, but the generic excuse unleashes a wave of disappointment that eats at me like battery acid. Not that I’m surprised. No one’s going to break their habits or routine for me. I’m not that kind of girl.

“Well, guess what? My life is complicated too. So I’m going to uncomplicate it a little and say good-bye.”

I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress and rise. I turn and round the couch to slip on my heels and grab my purse. When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder, and his back is to me once again.

“Good luck with your complicated life.”

I twist the handle and pull it open two inches before it slams shut and his arms bracket my body, trapping me against the door.

“You really think you’re going to forget this? Me? How it feels to come so hard, you can’t remember your own name?”

I force indifference into my voice. “I’ll live without it.”

“Maybe. But you’ll still crave it. I give you a week before you’re back here, looking for me again like you were tonight.”

My anger flares and I turn in his arms, meeting his intense stare. “You know what I’m really good at? Proving people wrong.”