She cries out, her face twisted in pleasure. I lean down and kiss her, f**king her mouth with my tongue as I continue to pound into her cunt. Though I’m lost in the complete ecstasy of her, I’m ever mindful of her needs. Soon she’s rocking against me, writhing to meet each plunge. I need to get her where she wants to be.

Without slowing my barrage, I direct her to wrap her legs around me. She does, and the new position opens her up even further. The heels of her shoes dig into my ass. I’m so deep inside her.

And it’s then—as my balls slap against her with each drive, as her body tightens and contracts against my cock, as I reach the peak of my own release—it’s then that my fears and hopes are realized. I am completely lost in Alayna Withers. Figuratively and literally. Completely and inescapably lost.

She trembles beneath me. Does she know what I’m thinking? Is she as moved by this revelation as I am?

“I’m going to come,” she groans.

“Yes. Yes, come, Alayna.” Because I can’t hold on much longer and I want to go with her.

I want to go with her wherever she goes.

Her orgasm crashes through her and I follow, shouting her name, flying with her. And I feel a release that transcends the cl**ax of our sexual activity. A release of unspoken words. This moment we’ve just had together, it’s the most I’ve shared with any woman. As though we weren’t simply f**king but communicating. As though we’d invented our own language, and through it, I was finally able to speak emotions that I never knew dwelled within me.

Or I just had a really good f**king orgasm and I’m poetic with hormones.

I collapse onto Alayna, my head cradled in her neck. I hope it’s more than hormones. I hope I’m not waxing poetic. Whatever the cause of my emotional epiphany, the experience was really, really good. I’m more intrigued by her than ever. More tied to her than I ever thought possible.

This, though—this is the only way I can have her. In a bed. With my body. Because I have nothing else to give to her. I have nothing else that I can share with her. The want to be with her elsewhere is fantastical. It’s a whim, a silly impulse that must be controlled.

And since this is all we will have that is real, I cling to it in a way that makes me think of a little child clutching a security blanket. It’s overdramatized and slightly pathetic but genuine all at once.

I whisper into her skin, needing to share this feeling with her in whatever way I can. “I knew sex with you would be like that. Powerful and intense and f**king incredible. I knew it.”

It’s a lie, though. I had no idea it would be that good. No f**king idea at all.

Chapter Ten

She’s sleeping.

I went to the bathroom to clean up and came back to her gentle rhythmic breathing. The softness of it—of her skin, of her hair, of this moment—it makes me yearn for something I can’t name.

I tug the blankets from underneath her and cover her.

Alayna struggles to sit up.

“Sleep, precious.” I like the idea of her sleeping in my bed. Even though it’s not the bed I tend to spend many nights in. It almost bothers me to see her in this place where I’ve had other women. She seems out-of-place.

But where else would I have her? Certainly not at The Bowery where I live. I bring no one there. Still I can’t help but picture her in that bed…

The strange yearning is about to take over, and I refuse to let that happen. Though there’s a part of me that wants to explore it and study it the way I’ve studied and explored the emotions of others, I know this isn’t the time or the place to do so. It’s not fair to Alayna. I want her to come out of this unscathed, and these notions are not healthy for either of us.

I need to focus on that, focus on the real, and abandon thoughts of the impossible.

I brush a kiss on her forehead. “I need to order dinner. Chinese okay?”

“Sounds delicious.”

She stretches and her tits pop out from under the covers. They’re gorgeous and are distracting me from food, but Alayna works later and I need to take care of her. “I’ll call it in.”

I feel her eyes on me as I leave the room, and I very nearly let them pull me back to her. Except I’m a man of discipline. I can abstain from the things that I can’t have and Alayna Withers…I can only have her in this way—in measured doses. In fragments of time.

But when I am with her, I will be with her completely.

I make the call to the Chinese place on the corner. They’re on speed dial and know me well.

Then I take a few minutes to gather my thoughts, to remind myself of the games I’m playing and the games I refuse to play. When I return, I need to distance myself from her. This evening can’t be construed as anything but what it is—a simple f**k. She can’t believe there is anything more to my desire than that.

Because there’s not. I won’t let there be, no matter what ideas are shaping in my mind.

I collect the clothes we’d discarded earlier in the living room, not letting my mind recall the details of the hot memory. When I return to my room, she’s half-dressed. It should be a good thing—she understands exactly what this was supposed to be and she isn’t cleaving to the physical act, making it something meaningful, like most women would.

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 pu**y. My c**k 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.