His breathing is harsh and uneven, and he drops his hand from my face like I’ve burned him, and he puts space between us—cold air rushing into the gap where his warmth used to be.
“I can’t.”
The words hit me like ice water. I blink fast, thinking I must be drunk and mishearing him, or I’ve fallen asleep and I’m having a nightmare. But as I watch Duke, I realize I’m awake, and I heard him clearly.
Here we go again; not good enough, not desirable enough, not worth wanting.
I turn away, trying to hide my tears.
“No.” Duke’s voice is sharp. He catches my chin and forces me to look at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes blazing with something fierce. “Riley, no. It’s not—” He struggles, runs a hand through his hair, still breathing hard from our kiss.
“What?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended, wounded.
Duke looks away, staring out at the neon night. For a long moment, he just sits there, the muscles in his forearm tensing as he grips the edge of the lounge chair.
“You’re fucking incredible, Riley.” His voice breaks on my name. “That’s why I can’t do this. Because I care too much.” He looks at the ground, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair. He stands, not looking at me. His voice is flat and distant. “It’s late. We should get some sleep.”
I stare at Duke as he walks toward the balcony door, his shoulders rigid.
I know I should say something, but my mind is muddled from the wine and the kiss, and my thoughts aren’t clear. How do you talk to someone who’s already made a pros and cons list, decided there are more cons, and assumes you can’t handle a potential future? And why close yourself off against something that might happen, instead of opening yourself up to a great love?
But the words won’t come. And Duke disappears inside, leaving me alone on the balcony with an empty wine bottle, the taste of him still on my lips, and a ring that suddenly feels too heavy on my hand.
I don’t know if this can be fixed.
CHAPTER 7
DUKE
The ceiling hasn’t changed in the six hours I’ve been staring at it.
Gray morning light filters through the curtains, casting shadows across the honeymoon suite. I’m on the couch. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the bed with her. Not after last night. Not after I kissed her and then pulled away like a coward.
I can still taste her on my lips.
The memory hits me in waves. That damn sexy gasp she made when I deepened the kiss. How kissing her felt better than I knew a kiss could feel. The way she melted into me, her fingers gripping my shirt and pulling me closer. Nothing prepared me for howrightit felt to finally have her in my arms.
And then I pulled away. Fuck. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t handle it if I hurt her. Seeing the hurt on her face was worse than taking a shot to the gut.
I scrub a hand over my face. My back aches from the too-short couch cushions, and my eyes burn from lack of sleep. Every timeI closed them, I saw the devastation in her eyes when I told her I couldn’t do this.
I did the right thing. Protecting her from a future where she gets a phone call and a folded flag instead of a husband, even if it hurt both of us when I pulled back.
So why does doing the right thing feel like cutting out my own heart? And why can’t I stop thinking about the way she tasted, the way she fit against me like she was made to be there?
The bedroom door creaks open.
Riley emerges slowly, hesitant, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s wearing one of my old Army t-shirts, and it’s a struggle not to stare at how it strains over her tits. Her hair is tangled from sleep, and her eyes are shadowed with exhaustion.
She’s never looked more beautiful. And I’ve never felt more like a piece of shit.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is guarded.
“Morning.”
She hovers near the bedroom doorway while I stay frozen on the couch, and the space between us feels like miles.
“Did you sleep?” she asks.
