Ayla

“What the hell was that?” I call him that night, just past eleven when I’m finally back from the bookstore. I stuck around after questions and made sure every single person who bought a ticket to see me walked out with my autograph in the front of their book.

“I wanted to hear you say it out loud, in front of other people. I wanted to hear you own it. To describe it without excuses and justifications.”

“Where are you staying?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I need to see you.”

“That’s not a good idea, Ayla.”

It’s been a month now since our night in New York, and things are getting worse. I’m losing sleep. I’m not eating. I’m obsessing and ruminating and falling behind on work. I have to put an end to this.

Loving him is killing me.

“Why do you do this?” I’m practically screaming through the phone.

“Do what?”

“You reel me in and cast me out, over and over,” I say. “It’s exhausting. Let me go or keep me. You don’t get to do both.”

He sighs, marinating in weighted silence.

“I will never recover from you if you continue to do this to me,” I say. “And maybe that’s your intention, to break me over and over and over again. Is that what you want? To watch me fall apart every time you come around? You know what? On second thought, I think part of you wants to hurt me. And I think part of you wants to love me. You didn’t have to come to the bookstore tonight, but you did. You wanted to see me.”

Rhett says nothing.

“Let me come over,” I say. “I want you to look into my eyes, see what you’re doing to me, and then I need you to set me free, because I can’t do this anymore.”

I wait for a response that never comes, and then the call ends.

A minute later my screen lights with a text.

* * *

He greets me with a kiss.

It isn’t sweet or soft or slow.

It isn’t apologetic or redeeming.

There’s no mercy in the way he kisses me.

His hand grips the underside of my chin, palm spread around my neck just enough that I can still breathe, and yet my life is in his hands.

His teeth take my bottom lip before he moves to my neck, and his hands tug at my shirt.

“I didn’t come here for this,” I say, breathless as my body melts against the wall. My hand rakes through his thick sandy hair as he lowers himself, pressing his mouth against the burning flesh of my exposed stomach. His fingers work the waistband of my leggings, and while half of me wants to stop him, the other half is desperate for him to keep going.

This is what he does to me.

My power is useless.

He’s my Kryptonite.

Rhett rises, towering over me, his mouth crashing onto mine again as he slides his hands down my thighs and pulls me against him. Within seconds, he’s carrying me to the bed, ripping at my clothes with the same carelessness as the last time.

“Rhett,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

“Rhett, wait,” I say as his hands slip down the front of my panties and drag along my slick seam. A finger pushes deep inside, followed by a second, and his thumb circles my clit with the perfect amount of pressure. “Can we talk first?”

“No,” He kisses my inner thighs, nipping at the tender flesh, and my body is covered in goose bumps. His fingers press inside me harder, faster, until I’m writhing with a mix of pleasure and agony.

A second later, he’s flipping me to my stomach, and the clink of his belt fills the space we share follow by the metallic tug of his zipper. He produces a condom, sheaths himself, and a single thrust later, he’s filling every inch of me.

On my knees, I grip the sheets, letting him fuck me just like the last time. He grunts and groans, his hands digging into my hips as he controls my hips to meet his every thrust. My skin feels red and raw, and I’m oddly more aroused than I’ve ever been.

But I don’t want this—not anymore.

I pull my body away from him and roll to my side, climbing off the bed and gathering my clothes. He watches, face twisted in frustration.

“Ayla,” he says.

“I don’t want to do that with you,” I say, throwing on my t-shirt and slipping my leggings back on. My bra and panties are lying somewhere around here, but the room is dark, and I don’t feel like searching.

I’m hot. The room spins. Making a beeline toward the balcony, I fling the sliding doors open, greeted with a burst of fresh, rain-scented air.

Rhett steps outside a moment later, sweats over his semi-hard cock.

“I miss the old you,” I say, arms wrapped around my side and legs crossed as I sit at one of the chairs. “In a way, it feels like I’m cheating on him ... with you.”

He takes the chair across from me, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing into his hands. Rhett pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes concentrated at his feet.

“I love you, Rhett,” I glance at him, and our eyes hold. “I want to be with you. Still. But not if you’re going to hate-fuck me every time you see me.” I stand up. “I can’t.”

All I wanted to do tonight was talk. I thought maybe we could sit down, put the ego and bullshit aside, and figure this out. I was prepared for it to go either way. I wasn’t prepared for him to all but throw me against the wall and take ownership of my mind, body, and soul all over again.

I hate myself for giving in.

I stand, drawing in a deep breath and mustering the strength to do what I have to do. “Goodbye, Rhett.”

He stays, unmoving, planted in the chair and watching me leave. Before I step inside, I decide to tell him one last thing.

“And yes,” I say. “I do think you should forgive me. But if you don’t want to ... if you can’t ... that’s on you.”