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I need to let you go.
I shouldn’t care that I haven’t been the only one unable to forget.
I shouldn’t care that he still wants me.
But I do. I care, because I want him, oh so much.
A few weeks of reawakening old desires, old feelings, then I’ll lose him all over again.
“Tristan…”
You just spent the whole night in bed with him, Cora. What could possibly be worse?
“What I’m proposing is mutual pleasure for as long as we can both stand each other.” That devilish blue gaze focuses on me again and it’s intoxicating to be the object of his sole attention. It’s the single-minded attention he gives to problems he wants to solve, and why he succeeds time and time again. I want to be solved. I want to give him whatever he wants.
“And maybe,” he continues, his eyes still holding mine, “you get so much of me that you get sick at the sight of me.” He slides one finger down my arm, and when I tremble, he smiles. “Don’t tell me you don’t want that outcome. Total physical and emotional freedom from me.”
What would be the point of saying I already have that? He knows that’s a lie. He knows I can’t think of him without wanting him. He knows I can’t go a day without thinking of him.
“Stop thinking.”
“I can’t stop thinking.”
“You can.” He replaces his finger with his lips. My skin flushes. “Start with now, today, this weekend… No thinking, just being.”
Just being…with him.
“For now,” he continues, “we can forget everything else.”
Like the past. Like our marriage. Our divorce. Old pain. Old betrayals. Everything.
“And just pretend…” I whisper.
His eyes flick to mine, then he’s kissing me again, pushing me gently back on the bed, covering my body with his. “Yes,” he murmurs between kisses. “If that’s what it takes.”
