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“Do you want to watch something? A movie,” she clarifies.
Without checking the time, I know it’s late. Easily after ten. A movie would keep me well past midnight. Much as I want to entertain the idea, I probably shouldn’t press my luck. The temptation is real, though.
“No, I—”
She cuts me off. Frames my face with her hands and brings her mouth to mine. Then everything goes dark as my eyes roll back. Dark and warm and euphoric.
Her lips move against mine in gentle strokes. Sweet and soft and pink. On the second wave, my lips move with hers. Perform a dance they haven’t in years. I tilt my head to the side, change the angle of the kiss, and she shifts too. My hands reach for her, land on the curve of her hips. Glide up either side of her rib cage, skirt the length of her collarbones until I trail up her neck and take her face in my palms.
I need to taste her. See if she is as sweet as I have imagined.
Parting my lips, I lick the seam of hers. Like the blooming petals of a flower, she opens up and invites me in. Lets me sweep my tongue over hers. Tangle it with hers. Taste her.
And I am done.
Lost with no desire to be found.
Lost in her warmth. In the electricity. Her earthy-floral scent. Her sweet and succulent taste. Lost in the high that hits my bloodstream with my lips on hers. Obliterated by the volatile rhythm she teaches my heart.
I kiss her as if I never will again. As if she is my last supper and I am a starved fool.
You are a fool.
A ping sounds in my brain. A system override. A tripwire. An alarm telling me to abort. To stop kissing Shelly because we can never be anything more than friends. Because emotional attachment beyond friendship only leads to heartache. To pain and suffering. To an inevitable end. Because one day, she will decide she no longer wants me. No longer needs me. Doesn’t want me at her side to touch her or hold her or give her whatever she needs.
She will throw me away.
Just like Kelsey did.
I break the kiss and scoot away from her. Eyes downcast, I shake my head and hold up a hand. “No.” I shake my head again. “No, I can’t. We can’t. I can’t do this.” Finally, I meet her gaze and see the tears already rimming her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Fuck.
I hate myself. Hate that kissing a woman I want, a woman who wants me, a woman Itrust,ends in catastrophe. More than anything, I hate that my brain is wired this way. Ready to ruin everything good.
It’s bullshit, but I already lit the fuse.
I need time to think. Time to figure out how to fix the messed-up shit in my head. Time to make myself worthy of Shelly. She deserves better than this. Better than me.
Rising from the couch, I look everywhere but at her. Mutter my apologies over and over as I slowly make my way to the door.
I need to get out of here. Away from her. Before I lose the strength to go.
“I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry, Devlyn. You don’t have to go. Please, I’m sorry.” She is off the couch, taking slow, deliberate steps in my direction. Approaching me like a scared, wounded animal.
She can’t touch me. If she touches me, I will cave. Lose all willpower and give in to her pleas. And I can’t. Not yet. Not now. Not until I unscramble my warped brain. Otherwise, I will just make it worse. Hurt her worse.
I meet her eyes again. Take one last look at her glassy, veiny, twilight irises. “I can’t,” I whisper. “I wish I could, but I just…” Two more steps and I grab the knob. Twist and take another step, this one outside. “I’m so sorry.”
And then, I leave. Dash to the car, start the engine, and drive home in a fog. In my pocket, my phone vibrates over and over. Without fishing it out, I know who it is. Know that Shelly is texting or calling. And I want to answer her. Want to tell her how I feel. Want to confess how much I care for her. Explain what just happened. Why I reacted the way I did.
Just as I closed her door, I saw the first bout of tears glide down her cheeks. And now, it will be all I see when I think of her. Her pain and misery and regret. And I deserve that to be my reminder. I deserve to only see her suffering. Her pain is my punishment.
I reach a red light and pull out my phone. Thirteen text messages, all from Shelly and all various forms of an apology.
“I’m sorry too. You don’t know how much.” I look at the screen and shake my head. “God, I wish it was that easy. I wish I could give you more. But I can’t. Not yet.”
And then I power off my phone, stow it in my pocket, and finish the drive home.
