“Didn’t think you did. Doesn’t make it better.” His silence turns volatile, as if the quieter I am, the worse this is in his head. But I have no idea what to say right now. He grits his teeth. “You think this is something I can compartmentalize?”
“I have no idea what to say to that, Damian.”
He steps closer. Close enough that the air between us heats. “You should have trusted me.”
“I was trying to survive this. Do you have any idea how scared I am right now? How scared I’ve been since the little blue line showed up on my pregnancy test? I have been terrified and swallowing that fear down ever since!”
“We could have been scared together.” He presses himself into my space, close enough for me to smell his cologne.
“I thought you’d hate me forever?—”
His mouth crashes against mine like he’s been holding back too much for too long. The anger is still there, braided tight with hurt and something dangerously close to relief. His hands come up fast—one at the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist hard enough to pull a sharp breath out of me.
I make a sound in his mouth before I can stop it. He tastes like champagne. The lights hum above us. The mirror catches the edge of the movement. The door is unlocked.
Anyone could walk in. Our specialty.
He deepens the kiss without hesitation, and I feel the fury in it. He’s not trying to hurt me. He’s releasing something he can’t control.
His hand slides down my side, fingers pressing into the curve of my hip. I’m still in my maid-of-honor heels, hair pinned too carefully for this, lipstick probably smudging across his mouth.
He turns me. Suddenly I’m facing the counter. I see us in the mirror.
The cold marble hits my hands as I brace myself instinctively. My heart is pounding so loud I’m certain it’s echoing off tile. “Damian—” I start.
He presses in behind me, heat through fabric, breath hot at my ear. “You don’t get to lie to me,” he murmurs.
“I know.” The words are barely audible.
His hands move again, sliding over my waist, up my ribs, then back down. There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing measured. He’s furious. And he can’t stop touching me.
I tilt my head back, and he kisses along my jaw, rough, deliberate. My body answers him without permission. My hips shift backward into him before I can reason with myself.
God. Even now. Even after destroying his world. Even knowing this might be goodbye, I want him.
He grips my hips and pulls me tighter. The mirror shows the shape of us. Fractured, breathless, overdressed and completely undone.
“This doesn’t fix it,” he says as he lifts the back of my dress.
“I know.”
“You don’t get absolution just because I can’t stop touching you.”
“I know.”
His hands tighten. “Then why do you look like you think this will save you?”
Because I love you, and nothing else matters.I don’t say it. Instead, I reach back and grab his wrist, anchoring him there. “I wasn’t trying to trap you.”
His breath stutters. “I know,” he says finally.
The anger softens. Not gone. Shifted lower. He peels my underwear down, pulls my hips back, and suddenly, he’s inside of me. There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing loving. This is purely raw instinct. This is hurt given movement.
He pounds into me, our bodies smacking together in rhythm. I push back just as hard as he shoves forward. Pleasure coils, hot and fast, with every stroke. Watching us in the mirror gets me there faster. But I don’t watch his face.
I can’t. Even buried deep inside of me, he’s on the verge of pain.
I watch our bodies instead. He’s barely out of his suit—in fact, he’s not. He must have only lowered his trousers to get access. This is probably the last time we’ll ever be together, and I don’t even get to see him naked.
