Exhaling sharply, I back away and remove the condom, tossing it into a tiny plastic garbage bin.
I glance back at her, guilt journeying through me.
She deserves a real love story. Fireworks, roses, popping champagne.
Not that.
“Annie…” My voice scrapes raw.
Her gaze searches mine as she presses her legs together, vulnerable and waiting, and something in me fractures all over again.
“I…” I trail off, shaking my head.
Stepping forward, I reach out, my hand curling behind her neck, tightening at the nape.
I open my mouth—
But nothing good comes out.
I drop my gaze, let out a rough breath, and say, “We should get back.”
Her body stiffens immediately.
I feel it. The way she peels herself away from me, slowly, like touching me burns.
“Right,” she breathes out, voice pinched and pained.
By the time I gather my jeans and hook them around my hips, she’s already pulling on her pants in frantic, jerky movements. Straightening her blouse. Taming her hair.
Stalking toward the door.
I move to follow. “Annie, wait.”
“It’s fine,” she says, hardly holding it together. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She yanks the door open without looking at me.
And then she’s gone, disappearing into bright hallway lights.
I sag in place. My face falls into my hands as I collapse against the amp, and the headache rushes back, louder than ever.
Shit.
I fucked up.
Again.
But that’s not how I wanted it. Not how it should have happened.
I lost control.
The notion eats through me like rust.
Cupping my jaw, I stare at the string dangling from the lone bulb above, the room vibrating with her absence, her scent still clinging to every inch of me.
With a snarl, I yank the cord.
