Ayla

“Knew you’d come around,” he says as he answers the door in nothing but sweats. His tan, muscled torso is going to be a huge distraction tonight, and I wish he’d cover it up because now all I want to do is climb all over him and go to town.

He reaches for my arm, pulling me in and slamming the door behind me, and then he backs me against the wall, his lips crashing against mine as his hand crawls up my shirt.

I swat him away. “Stop.”

He freezes, confused.

“I told you, we’re not doing this tonight.”

“Then why the hell’d you come over?”

“To talk to you in person.” I tug my shirt into place, and my heart beats a hundred times per second.

“Seriously?” he scoffs, dragging his hand through his messy, sandy hair.

“Seriously what?”

“You’re breaking up with me and we’re not even dating.”

“I just don’t think I can continue this arrangement. I’m not the fuck buddy type. I’m sorry. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.” I clear my throat, daring myself to look him in the eye.

“What changed?”

His question catches me off guard. I expected him to give me a manly huff and show me the door.

“Is there someone else?” he asks. “Are you already with someone else?”

“No,” I say, slashing my hand through the air. “There’s no one else.”

“Then how is this all of a sudden not working for you?”

The truth burns inside me, trickling up my throat and dancing on the tip of my tongue, but when I look at him and linger on his stormy gaze, the gaze that still drinks me in and wants me despite the fact that I’m pulling away right now ... I don’t have the heart—not after everything he’s been through. I can’t drop the bomb on him just yet. If I can sidestep my way out of this, maybe I can avoid hurting him altogether.

“I need a connection,” I say, opting to play the part of a future-needy-girlfriend. That should be enough to drive him away. “It’s weird screwing a total stranger. You can’t take your hands off me, but you don’t even know me. That’s not weird to you?”

His lips press flat and his brows merge.

“So that’s it?” He folds his arms.

I pause for a second. “In a nutshell.”

“Then no. It’s not weird to me,” he says, reaching for me and pulling my body against his. “Now get over here because you’re right, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

I press my hands flat against his chest.

“I want something deeper. Something you can’t give me,” I add, because the more impossible tasks I give him, the easier it’ll be for him to walk away. And he needs to walk away from me. It’s for his own good. I’m doing this for him.

“Deeper isn’t always better.” His lips smirk. “I mean, sometimes it is.”

“I disagree. Deep is the only way to go. Sometimes you have to go so deep, it hurts,” I say. “That’s where the good stuff is.”

“God, you’re making me want you so bad right now.” He cups my chin in his hand, bringing his mouth down on mine.

“Deep, Rhett,” I remind him. I refuse to be distracted by a kiss. “If you can’t go deep with me, I can’t do this with you.”

“See, you’re wrong about the deep stuff.” He pulls me closer against him, his hands hooking my waist tight. “The good stuff is at surface level, where everything’s perfect. When you go deeper, that’s when you realize everything you thought you had was a fucking illusion. That’s when you realize there’s nothing beyond the surface and there never was.”

I glance away.

“The trick,” he says, “is never to go below the surface.”

“I have to go.” I pull away from him, but he reels me back.

“Why are you doing this? What are you not telling me?”

“If I tell you,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat and letting a bit of reality slip through. “I’ll be going beneath surface level, and I don’t think you want that.”

He’s quiet now, contemplative.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t want that. But I still want you. I want you in my bed. I want your smart-mouthed text messages blowing up my phone. I want your company. Surely we can find some common ground. I don’t think you’d keep coming back if you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

God, he’s right. It’s exactly the reason I keep coming back. I like being with him.

Our eyes catch, and his hand lifts to my cheek.

“I don’t want to date you, Ayla. I don’t want to be your boyfriend,” he says. “All I want is something so physical, so amazing, that nothing we’ll ever have with anyone else will ever come close. And the beauty of it will be that we can both walk away unscathed because we never went deep. We knew when to throw in the towel—before things got tired and boring and ugly.”

“So you want all the benefits of dating me ... without actually having to date me.”

He laughs, his mood lighter, like he got it all off his chest. “Yeah.”

“Sounds great,” I say. “For you.”

His arms fall to his side, and he exhales. “Okay, then what do you need from me?”

“I need you to tone it down.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“You’re so intense,” I say, getting back on track. I think I can still convince him I want more. “You need to slow down. Enjoy this with me. And talk to me more. Even if you don’t care how my day went, at least ask. I’m a writer. I’m alone all day long. By the end of the day, I’m desperate for human interaction—real conversation. And moans and sighs aren’t quite the same.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll ask you about your day.” He blows a swift breath past his lips. He’s annoyed by this, I can tell. Maybe it’s working?

“And I’m going to ask about yours too. This needs to go both ways.”

He doesn’t seem too excited, but he gives me a nod. “Fine.”

I yawn, cupping my hand over my mouth. His bed calls to me, and it’s so damn comfortable. It’s a million times softer than the guest room at Bryce’s, which I’ve now concluded is the cheapest queen-sized mattress he could find.

“Anyway, I’m exhausted.” I push past him, helping myself to his surroundings like I own the place.

“Where are you going?”

“To your bed. You dragged me over here, at least show a little hospitality.”

I hear him chuckle, and then he turns out the lights. By the time he crawls into bed, I’m halfway to dreamland but awake enough to feel the bed shift and the warmth of his body as he inches closer to me. The last thing I feel before I’m completely out is the weight of his arm draping over my side.

Mission unaccomplished.