Brant gulped.
He couldn’t look away.
He licked his lips. He sucked in a breath as the dress slid down her legs. And just because life was that cruel, she was wearing white.
He loved her in white. Her wedding dress hadn’t been as beautiful as the dress she was wearing now.
They hadn’t been able to afford anything fancy, not with his grandfather telling him he was making a mistake by marrying so young—not with her parents basically disowning her for the same reason.
God, she was beautiful.
“No pasts.” His voice had a hard edge to it. He was going to regret this, all of it, but he’d never had much self-control around her, and now? Now that he’d tasted her again?
“No pasts,” she recited back, her eyes filling with tears.
“Come here.” The words finally happened, and they were the wrong ones. They were seductive, calm, everything he didn’t feel as his heart slammed against his chest with anticipation of touching her again, kissing her, claiming her.
She stepped out of her dress, heels still strapped around her ankles as she moved in a straight line toward him.
God, he needed a drink. A cold shower.
Hell, he was sure getting run over by a semi wouldn’t be enough to stop him from kissing her—touching her.
She was his heaven. He was in hell.
“I’m the only one naked.” Her mouth twisted into a shaky smile as she adjusted her mask.
“Not for long,” was his hoarse answer as he reached for her perfect body and tugged it against his as he very slowly pulled her mask free, letting it fall to the ground by her feet.
Wrong. This was wrong. Maybe he really was the bastard everyone thought he was—because as wrong as it was—he couldn’t stop himself.
He kissed her hard. He punished her with his mouth.
How dare she come back into his life and remind him of everything he’d had and lost?
She gasped with each kiss, exposing her neck, putting her soul into every movement.
This wasn’t a one-night stand. This was the good-bye they’d never had. The one he fucking deserved after she’d put him through hell, after she’d pushed him away and nearly died in the choking flames.
Brant told himself he was doing it for selfish reasons. Because that was what good-byes were—selfish. It was one last touch, one last taste; it was a desperate, insane attempt to cling to something that was already gone.
Death had a way of breaking the living. And maybe that was why they didn’t survive. Because they were both halves of a whole that didn’t make it.
He’d thought he was almost over her. But her tongue slid against his, and he realized he was wrong.
Maybe that was their destiny, to always be in each other’s lives but never get the happy ending.
It didn’t matter, did it? No matter where she went, she was still a part of him, a beautiful reminder of his ugly past.
Her lips parted on the next kiss. He gripped her shoulders with his hands, then slid his hands down her back, again and again, his fingers dancing along her spine, memorizing the feel of her smooth skin and the way it reacted to his touch. Goose bumps rose and fell.
Brant breathed in the moment. One-night stand.
His grip on reality—on the situation—on the anger and the fear, and all of the ugly dragging him into the depths of hell—shattered in her arms.
Nikki’s body shook as she deepened the kiss, slowly entwining her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.
He ducked his head in her neck, inhaled, and shook with the need to do it again and again. Real. She was real. In his arms.
I’d find you anywhere, his heart beat.
No. Not anymore. This was the end. Not the beginning.
He kissed her harder. Rather than retreat, she met him with each thrust of his tongue, whimpering when his fingertips dug into her hips, dragging her underwear down her perfect legs and tossing them aside.
Brant drank her in.
One night. If he only had on more night with her, he would want it like this—with moonlight kissing her skin. No real barriers between them, and yet everything was standing in the way, wasn’t it?
Even the air was charged with things left unsaid, baggage that refused to be dropped. Hurt that refused to be healed. Because healing was the most painful part of the process, wasn’t it? And he was done with that sort of pain.
But pleasure? That he could do. Let it consume them both.
Nikki reached for his suit jacket, her hands shaking as she slowly undid button after button and pushed the jacket off his shoulders.
Every so often, her fingers would graze his chest. It was torture. He was strung so tight that by the time she finally tugged his shirt free, he picked her up and carried her to the massive bed. Then he turned down the lights until blackness covered the entire room.
Darkness covered her face. He was thankful for the dark.
Brant was a coward. An angry, lying coward.
He crushed his mouth to hers in a punishing kiss, a kiss that told her how much he still hated, which meant it also had to show how much he still loved.
He would always love. And that was the problem. Because the only way he could make it through his life was to let his hate and love coexist, and too often his hate won. Because hate at least didn’t demand that same healing that love did.
Exposed. Bloody. Vulnerable.
Left it for dead—that was what she’d done to his heart. So yeah, he deserved this moment with her, the last night they never had. The last kiss she refused to give.
He stole it. Kept it. Coveted it.
His tongue skimmed her trembling lips over and over again. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, kissing him deeper, sucking his soul dry, marking him just as deeply as he was marking her.
A blast of heat surged between them as he slid his fingers down her thigh. When he found her core, she let out a little gasp.
He pulled his hand back and yanked off the remainder of his clothes. The silence crackled, sizzled, like the calm before the storm.
This would change everything. This would destroy her. Even the playing field.
And yet he couldn’t stop.
The hate was winning. Even though his heart beat for her.
He kissed her again. His hands weighed her breasts, and with a groan he moved to her hips, positioning her body as she panted beneath him.
They were playing with fire.
And Brant—fucking burned.
With a sliding thrust, he invaded, he selfishly took his.
Nikki cried out, her nails digging into his skin, and then she matched his every movement, every rhythm.
“Hell…” He hissed out a breath. “You feel good.”
She didn’t say anything, just slid her hands slowly up the sides of his ribs. Then she hooked her hands around his neck and pulled him down for another series of possessive kisses that had him forgetting his own damn name.
She was his.
She’d been his since the minute he walked into that bar.
She would always be his.
He just hated that as much as he owned her—she owned him equally as much.
This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t even about them.
It was about Brant.
He shoved the guilt away, letting the pleasure take control, the same pleasure he told himself he deserved as his body said, Good-bye. And his heart said, Not yet.
Another thrust.
Nikki cried out.
His.
“You’ll always be mine,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. A sea of pleasure surged between them. Her body tightened around him, pulling him tight like it was promising never to let him go. Brant rose over her again. She was close—he could feel it in the way she tensed beneath him.
With a shudder, he kissed her back, his lips moving against her mouth. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go.”
“I don’t want to.” She tugged his head down, kissing him again. “That will mean it’s over.”
She was destroying him, ruining the selfishness of the moment, making him feel everything. “It won’t ever be over.” The truth hung between them. “Let go.”
He could feel the minute she gave him all she had. He would remember the feel of her climax for the rest of his lonely, miserable life.
An explosion of need followed by an uncontrollable surge of lust that slammed into him as he filled her to the hilt one last time and followed her release.
It was war.
Her surrender. His taking. Their death.
He rolled over onto his back, gasping for breath, as she slowly rose to a sitting position on the bed.
She was leaving? Like hell. With a grunt, he tugged her down against his chest, her cheek pressed against his skin.
“Stay.” His voice cracked.
She hesitated and then released a soft sigh. “Okay.”
Brant closed his eyes as his throat swelled with emotion. After all, the demons could be kept away for only so long. And he knew the minute he opened his eyes again—they would be back, reminding him of what he’d done, what he’d destroyed.
And this time—he would only have himself to blame.
Better that way. It would be better.
Her soft, even breathing filled the night.
Good-bye.
He was saying it to the old Brant. Just as much as he was saying it to her.
And they lived happily ever after. Except they didn’t.
Wrong story. Wrong lives.
I’ve lost everything.