And I’m disappointed.

“You’re getting dressed?”

I’ve startled her. She covers herself with her arms, hiding from me. I don’t like her hiding.

But that’s not a fair thing to want. Not when I’m hiding. From everyone. From her.

Still, I can’t let her go.

I throw the shirt and tie onto the laundry basket and strike a stern pose. “Are you in a hurry to leave?” My gaze travels the length of her body—her well-toned legs, her trimmed pussy. My cock twitches with arousal.

She shivers and I wonder if she’s cold or if she can sense my want.

Then she looks away and I realize she has no idea how she affects me. It’s insane that a woman so intelligent can’t see the obvious.

“Guys don’t usually want me to hang around after sex,” she says.

I’m ripped apart by her words. “That statement brings up so many issues for discussion that I don’t know where to begin.”

She’s perfect and men have turned her away? I step toward her on impulse. “What is wrong with men to not…?” I can’t finish the statement. Because I should be turning her away. Because sentences like that are too close to sharing emotions. Because thinking of her with other men makes my gut twist.

Yet, I have to say something. “Alayna, please don’t group me with other guys you know. I’d like to think I’m not like most of them. And I don’t want to know or think about you having sex with other men. I don’t share.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes, but I can tell she likes what I’ve said.

“That sounds awfully relationship-y to me. I thought you didn’t do relationships,” she says as she tugs on her shorts.

It’s not a challenge—she’s feeling out the boundaries of what’s going on with us. I admire her for that. “I don’t do romantic relationships. Sexual relationships are another thing entirely. Why are you getting ready to leave?”

She reaches for her shirt, but I beat her to it. “Stop,” I say, holding her shirt out of her reach. I put my finger under her chin, tilting her to meet my eyes. It’s an intimate gesture—almost too intimate. Lost in her eyes, I say the words I shouldn’t but that can’t bear to be held inside. “I want you to stay.” I add my addendum so that my plea doesn’t get misconstrued—by her or by me. “And, if you are so inclined, I’d prefer that you not be dressed.”

She’s stubborn. Or cautious. “You’re dressed.” She crosses her arms over her chest again and thrusts out her lip in such a way that it takes all my energy not to lean forward and nibble on it.

“As soon as the food’s here, I’ll be happy to lose the clothing. Would that make you feel better?” It would help me to be naked with her. This strange energy between us is wearing on me. The physical is what I have to give her. I need to bring that back to the forefront of our relationship.

“Yes,” she answers, and I’m relieved.

But then she changes her mind. “I don’t know.”

I brush my hand against her cheek. Other women are so easy to read, so easy to manipulate because I understand what they’re thinking. But Alayna—she’s different. And all I know is that I have to have more of her. “What’s going on inside your head, precious? Are you going to run off every time we have sex?”

She turns away from me. “I hadn’t really thought this would be more than a one-time thing, Hudson.”

Honestly, I’d thought that I could get her out of my system easier than this myself. But I can’t. I need her in a way that I can’t fully understand.

And something about the way we connected makes me think she feels the same. So why is she running?

I grab her arm and pull her to me. “Alayna.” I search her eyes. “If you don’t want to have sex with me again, you need to tell me.”

“I do! I do.”

She throws her arms around me and buries her face in my chest. I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but my arms have a mind of their own, my body needing to protect her and hold her and comfort her. I return her embrace.

“What is it?” I stroke her hair. “Tell me.” I want to know her thoughts, her reasons, her worries. Even though I can’t give her the same in return.

“I’m not good at relationships. Of any sort. I have…issues.”

“Like what?” I know more about her past than she realizes. Her issues are nothing compared to mine. I shouldn’t let her know that I’ve researched her. I should let it go, let her secrets stay inside her. I’m not going to share mine with her.

But there are other parts of me—parts that want her to share with me and darker parts that want to force her to open up. Those parts take over and I ask, “Does this have anything to do with that restraining order?”

She stills in my arms. “You know about that?”

A rush of satisfaction runs through me. I’m addicted to this power—this thrill of being able to make someone feel a certain way. She’s uncomfortable, humiliated.

She tears out of my arms and buries her head in the blankets.

And I hate myself.

This power isn’t the power I want. It’s not who I want to be with her. I want the light, carefree Alayna back—the one that yielded to me with pleasure, not discomfort.

I should let it go. But I have to fix it.

I lie on the bed next to her and force a laugh. I put my hand on her back and massage her shoulders. Her naked skin beneath my fingers feels incredible and warm. I can’t stop touching her.

I bring us both back to the thing that we have, the only thing we share—our physical connection. “I know intimate things about you, precious—the way you look and the sounds you make when you’re about to come—and you’re concerned about this?”

She groans and my dick throbs.

“It was a big deal. The biggest deal. Like my biggest secret. I thought my brother had buried it.” She rises on her elbow and turns to eye me. “And are you saying I should be embarrassed about how I look and sound when…you know?”

It’s the last part of her statement I want to react to, but I still have mending to do. “I needed to know anything that might come up about my pretend girlfriend. It wasn’t necessarily easy to find, but not incredibly hard. It’s been buried now.”

With that out of the way, I cup her cheek and lose myself in her brown eyes. “And never, never be ashamed of how you look or sound at any time, especially when you’re about to come.” I circle her nose with mine. “I’m honored to be acquainted with you in that way.” I’d like to be acquainted with her in that way right now, in fact.

“I’m mortified.” She falls back onto the bed. “About the restraining order, I mean. I don’t know how to react to the other.”

“Why?” Her past is nothing like mine, and in many ways, her restraining order is silly and frivolous in comparison to the lives I’ve ruined.

But I understand her regret and her compulsions. They intrigue me and I want her to see that I can relate even though I can’t tell her how. Instead, I run my hand across her face and through her hair. I shouldn’t be touching her like this—it’s too near showing affection—but I can’t help myself.

“Because it makes me feel all weird and tingly. And turned on.”

“Fantastic.” I should take her again, right now.

I don’t. “But I meant, why are you mortified?”

“Oh.” She flushes and my dick hardens. That color on her face is so beautiful—she looks the same way when I’m fucking her, when I’m driving inside her. The urge to ravage her deepens.

But I want to hear her other answer. It’s important.

“Because it’s evidence of my crazy,” she says. “You know when I said I love too much? The restraining order is part of that, and I like to pretend it never happened.”

Like to pretend it never happened. I can’t get to that point. The things I’ve done are still real in my mind—every moment, every day. They consume me and eat at me, and even though I have learned to regret them, I can’t move away from them. What I’d give to pretend they never happened.