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But that doesn't matter.
I press my lips together. "You're still inside me."
"Lacey—"
"Could you not break my heart while you're fucking me?"
"It's not—"
"Seriously, Mal." I plant my hands on his shoulders to push my body off his. I tumble onto the spot on the couch next to him.
He's still naked.
Okay, he's pulling his jeans on.
Lifting his hips.
Zipper. Button. Done. He's only shirtless now. I only have to contend with his defined torso and all those delicious lines of ink.
And that regret in his blue eyes.
God, I feel cold. Empty. Hopeless. This is nothing compared to what he's going through, but it still hurts.
And it hasn't even happened yet.
I hate my mouth.
I hate words.
I hate everything.
His eyes turn to the ground. "Lacey…"
It's there in his voice. I don't love you.
Like I'm another one of those woman who just didn't get that he meant it when he said no strings attached.
I push off the couch and grab my bra. "I should go."
He doesn't agree. He doesn't fight me. He just stares.
Awesome. I don't have time to put this stupid thing on. I sling it around my wrist. But where the hell are my panties? This dress is too short for me to skip panties.
He reaches down for something. Oh. My underwear.
Mal gets up and places the panties in my palm. He stares back at me. "You really love me?"
I pull my hand away. I shimmy into my underwear. I'm not sure which is more embarrassing—him asking that or him asking that while holding my fucking panties?
His blue eyes are still boring into me.
I'm not sure what his expression is, but it's not good. It's certainly not I love you too.
"Lacey…"
"What the hell do you want me to say?" I stare back at him. "You want me to deny it? To pretend I don't love you?"
"No."
