Our breaths are shaky, our kisses are bittersweet, and unspoken emotion swells between us as we help each other undress just enough so that we can race with unsteady hearts toward the ultimate pleasure that I’m pretty sure will result in more pain. But I push the rational thought away, quiet her lips telling me she can’t over and over with my own.

We move in hurried but meaningful motions: my hands pushing her pants down, her hands stroking my dick. My fingers spread her open, the groan in my throat when I find her soaking wet. Hands skimming over warm flesh, the weight of her breasts in my hands, the creak of the console as I lift her hips up and she parts for me. The adamant repeat of “I can’t” morphing into a soft sigh of need when her muscles tense as I push into her.

And that singular sensation, my hard cock sliding into her resisting muscles undoes me. Consumes me. Blinds me from seeing the truths that I don’t want to face. That this is a good-bye to rival all other good-byes. Our kisses have communicated it all along, and now our bodies do the same through slow strokes, the tilt of her hips up to meet mine as I grind into hers, the bite of her nails in my shoulders, our unsteady breaths as we break momentarily from a kiss only for her to repeat her mantra before I kiss her again to stop her protests.

I move my hips slowly at first, the emotion and sensation almost too much to bear because how can we be this close and yet so far from how we used to be? But I find as much comfort as I can in the familiar little things: the gasp she emits when I brush my thumb over her clit, the texture of her tightened nipple against my tongue, the tensing of her thighs around my hips.

She won’t look at me, though. And I can’t have that. Can’t have her trying to shut me out now, so I still my hips when I’m buried to the hilt in her, leveraging her weight against mine, and bring my thumb and forefinger to her chin so that she’s forced to meet my eyes. Only when she holds her face steady, emerald eyes drowsy with lust but glistening with tears, do I continue the slow withdrawal from her body and then the bittersweet thrust to join our bodies again.

She comes in a violent shudder, her muscles tensing around me and my name on her lips for the first time since we started, but her voice sounds thick from the tears lodged in her throat.

“Beaux.” I groan her name as a blinding flash of heat surges through my body and possesses my movements so that when I grind into her one last time, I lose more than just my orgasm to her. Oh fuck. I lose so much more, but thank God I’m blinded by my climax so that I can’t think about it just yet.

We remain motionless for a moment, our bodies connected in the most intimate and carnal of ways, our arms wrapped around each other and our heads resting on opposite shoulders as we try to come to terms with what just happened and what I feel deep down I know is going to happen next. I’m afraid to speak, afraid to move, because once I do, I know I’ll never get this moment back.

“Beaux,” I murmur into her shoulder, “please… I need to understand.”

“We shouldn’t have done this,” she whispers. “You need to go.”

“How can you say that? How can —”

“Just please go. Forget I ever existed.”

I snap my head up painfully, eyes searching hers for answers she won’t give me as I try to dredge up the promise I made to myself before I walked onto the flight: to walk away and never look back if she rejected me. The hard thing is my feet are rooted in place, just like my heart.

“I could never forget you. Never.” I grit out words that have never been more true in my life. My hands come up to frame her face tenderly, her bottom lip trembling with the emotion I feel but don’t think I can show her because then I’d just give her another piece of me I’ll never get back.

And she already holds too many pieces of me as it is.

“I’ll walk away, Beaux. I’ll walk away and never look back if you ask me to… if that’s what you want. It’ll kill me because I don’t understand, but I’ll do it for you. God, I’d do anything for you right now,” I plead as my voice breaks with the weight of what I’m saying to her. “Just please tell me this wasn’t all a lie. Please tell me the nights we spent on the rooftop and the laughs we shared and the sex we had wasn’t just a joke to you. I need to leave knowing that what was between us wasn’t all in my head.”

“Tanner…”

“Can you give me that? Can you answer me so that I have something to hold on to?”

In an unexpected move that startles me, she takes my hand and places it on her chest over her heart with hers on top of mine. “Can you feel what I’m thinking?” she asks as her heart beats an erratic staccato beneath my palm. When she looks back up, her eyes are filled with tears, and one slips off her cheek and hits our connected hands. I bend my knees so that we’re face-to-face and she can’t escape from answering me with words. “I meant what I said about everything,” she whispers, and it makes my mind whirl.

About loving me? About not being able to be with me? About what? I want to shake her shoulders and insist that she answer all of my questions, but I know it’s no use. I know how stubborn she is, know how she’ll close down. Well at least I think I do, because I thought she loved me too and now she’s pushing me away.

My jaw is clenched, and my pulse is pounding a useless tempo because I’ve lost her. I close my eyes for a brief second to gather the wherewithal to walk away, angst slowly giving way to anger and resentment that she gets to make all the decisions here. “Don’t do this, Beaux,” I whisper more for myself than for her.

“If you ever loved me, you need to do this for me. Walk out the door and don’t look back.”

“I lov—”

“Shh! Not now. Not like this,” she says as she puts a fingertip to my lips, her head shaking side to side. “You need to go.”

There are so many words I want to say to her, so many things she needs to know, but as I start to lower my hands from her face, disbelief burns like a cannonball in my stomach. I grab her cheeks without warning and press my lips to hers in a kiss teeming with need, want, desire, desperation, and good-bye.

Once I break off the kiss, hoping it tells her everything I haven’t said, because I know I could keep at it forever, I stride from the house, heart on my sleeve and a hole in my chest. All without meeting her eyes for a last time or saying another word.

Let her think about that kiss on the nights when she’s lonely.

My feet eat up the sidewalk. Then finally I slide into my car and bang my fist against the dashboard. It would be so much easier to walk away if the sex had been savage and carnal and full of spite. A quick fuck to work each other out of our respective systems so that we could move on. A little piece of physical satisfaction to mask the anger and hurt vibrating beneath the surface. It would have screamed that we weren’t meant to be together. That we were a fucking flare of desire that had already hit the high point and was crashing to the ground, burning itself out.

But it wasn’t. Not in the least. We made love. It was slow and emotional and so real that I can taste more than just her kiss still. So it’s that much harder to walk away because you can’t fake that. You can’t connect with someone on every level like that and have it be a goddamn farce.

It gave me hope. A false hope. And false hope is the worst kind of all.

I made a promise to myself to walk away if she pushed. Well I pushed back when I shouldn’t have, tried to help her, love her, be with her, anything with her, and now I have to walk away and never look back. So I choke back all of the emotion within me that threatens to come bubbling out. I won’t allow it.

As I drive away from the perfect little Stepford house growing smaller in my rearview mirror, all I keep thinking is that looking back is all I want to do.

Fuck the popular theory that if you love something, you should set it free; I came back and look how that turned out.

Whoever said love is like war, easy to begin but hard to end, knew exactly what he was talking about.

For the next couple hours I drive aimlessly, losing my way and not caring if I find my way back because frankly I have nowhere to go. I vacillate between thinking what a huge mistake it was coming here and knowing that Beaux does love me.

How in the hell can I walk away from her without more of a fight?

When my phone rings, my hopes surge that it’s her calling me to come back. Seeing Rafe’s name, I ignore the call, in no mood to speak to him. He calls one more time. Then my phone alerts a text. When I look down, my curiosity is piqued when I see the code 9999, the one that we’ve used over the past five years for him to tell me that a story’s about to break and he wants me on it.

I stare at the screen for a few minutes. The fact that I’m interested but the buzz of adrenaline I thrive on is thready at best tells me that my head is elsewhere. I contemplate ignoring the text and heading back to Beaux’s house, but know I’ll kick myself later if it’s something huge that I passed up for a woman who’ll no doubt reject me again.

Even though my heart’s not in it, and my head is warring over whether I’m giving up too easily on Beaux, I dial the phone to return his call.

I was raised to fight for what I believe in and to not give up until I get it, so what do I do now?