Ayla sighs, falling to her elbows and pressing her cheek against the bed as she grips the sheets.
My hands clutch the flesh of her hips, leaving rosy imprints where I squeeze, and soon the slap of my skin against hers mixes with the scent of her arousal and the soft breathless sighs escaping her traitorous mouth.
Deeper.
Faster.
Harder.
I fuck her until we lose track of time; until she’s screaming into the sheets, telling me how good I feel inside her and begging me not to stop. She’s having quite the experience, but I don’t feel a fucking thing.
I’m numb.
When it’s over, I pull out, toss the condom in the trash, and hit the shower.
“You’re still here.” I stand in the bathroom doorway twenty minutes later, a towel wrapped around my waist and another draped around my neck.
I had to wash her off of me.
She’s dressed now, lying on my bed. “You didn’t ask me to go…?”
“Thought it was implied.”
Ayla sits up, eyes tracking me as I move around the room. I grab some clothes. And a drink from the mini bar. I don’t offer her a damn thing.
“What the hell was that, Rhett?” she asks.
“That ... was nothing.” I take a sip of Scotch. It’s cheap, which surprises me considering this is a world-class hotel, but it’ll have to do. “Absolutely nothing.”
The liquid burns my throat on the way down.
There.
Finally feel something.
“What, were you trying to fuck me out of your system?” she asks.
“Is that even a thing?” My head cocks to the side and my brows lift. I turn my attention to her and smirk.
Her face falls, washed in disappointment.
“What, you think because I kissed you—because I fucked you—that things are magically going to go back to the way they were?” I ask.
She’s quiet. She did. She totally fucking thought that.
“Cute,” I huff, shaking my head and taking a drink.
“So you just wanted to hurt me to get back at me,” she says, finally grasping the situation. “Don’t you think it was enough that you told me you never wanted to see me again?”
“Not really.”
“Who are you?” she asks, rising and moving to me.
I chuckle, glancing over her shoulder and out the balcony window.
“Stop,” she says. “Stop acting like this. It isn’t who you are. You’re not this guy, this heartless jerk. I see it in your eyes.”
My gaze snaps to hers. “Really, Ayla? And what do you see exactly?”
Her arms fold. “I see someone that was beginning to fall in love with me, and I hurt him so badly his heart turned to ice so that it would never have to feel again.”
“Poetic.” I roll my eyes, taking another sip.
“Don’t do this,” she pleads.
“No clue what you’re talking about,” I say. “I fucked you. Now I’m done fucking you. I’m not doing anything.”
Her lip quivers. Still, I feel zero sympathy.
“You know,” she says. “One of the reasons I didn’t tell you who I was right away was because it was too soon after Damiana. You were hurting. And you found an escape with me. I let you do anything you wanted to me—I let you use me—because I cared for you, and because that’s what you needed at the time.”
“Bryce always liked to play the martyr,” I say. “Must run in the family.”
Ayla buries her face in her hands.
“Stop trying to justify what you did. You knew who I was, you fucked me anyway. Deal with the consequences of your actions.” I toss back the rest of my drink, my hand gripping the glass so hard it could shatter. “Now get out of my hotel room.”
Her mouth gapes for a second.
“Go on. I’m done with you now.” I motion toward the door. My jaw sets, clenching until it throbs with pain.
I don’t see it coming—the slap across my face—until it’s too late. Heat blooms along my cheek and my jaw throbs. Her hazel eyes are wide, like she’s shocked by her own actions, but she says nothing.
“Hit me again,” I say. “I fucking love it.”
“You love it because it’s the only way you feel a damn thing, you cold-hearted bastard.” She turns on her heel to leave, but I hook my hand through her elbow and pull her against me.
“I said, hit me again.” I hold her wrist, my teeth gritting.
She scowls. “No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I …” her voice trails off and her gaze falls to the carpet.
“Because what?”
“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” she blurts, eyes glassy. And then her shoulders cave, her hands flying to her mouth to cover an escaped cry. “Because ... I love you.”
I cup her chin in my hand, lowering my mouth until our lips graze. Her tears won’t soften me. I’m incapable of pitying the self-centered.
“Then I highly recommend that you stop,” I say, making my words clear as day. I want there to be no mistaking my sentiments in this moment. “Immediately.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then you’re in for a world of hurt.” I release her chin and let her go, leaving her side and storming toward the balcony.
“Rhett,” she says, following. “If you want to hurt me, if that’s what makes you feel better about all of this, then I understand. I can take it. Believe me, any physical or emotional pain you could inflict on me is nothing compared to the pain I feel when you’re not around.”
Her hand warms my shoulder, and I turn to face her.
“I don’t think you understand,” she says, both of her hands clasped at her chest and eyes pleading, “how much of me ... belongs to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We hardly knew each other,” I say. “And don’t flatter yourself. You’re nothing more than a miniscule blip on my timeline.”
“The length of time you’re with someone has nothing to do with how much you love them.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that a scientific fact?” I smirk, pushing past her.
“Did you ever love me?” she asks, head tilted. “When things were good, did you ever look at me and think that maybe you were starting to fall? Just a little?”
Of course I did.
“No,” I lie.
“If you never loved me,” she says, “if I was just some girl you fucked, some blip on your timeline, then why do you want to hurt me so badly?”
“I’m not answering any more of your questions.” I point to the door.
“I’m not leaving,” she says.
“Then get on the bed.”
“What?”
“Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”
“Why?” Her eyes dance between mine and the bed behind me.
It hits me—really hits me—that this woman is willing to take all the pain I want to inflict on her, all because she loves me.
“I’m going to fuck you again,” I say.
Harder. Faster. Deeper. Mercilessly.
I’m starting to feel again, and I need to be numb to her.