I gulp. He’s drunk, playful, and his dark eyes give away exactly what he’s thinking.

“Come here.” He steps toward me, closing the small gap between us. He’s fully dressed, and I’m only in a bra and panties.

I shake my head. “No . . .” I know there’s something I have to say to him, I just can’t recall what it is. I can barely remember my name when he’s looking at me this way.

“Yes,” he counters, and I back away.

“I’m not having sex with you.”

He grabs me by the arm and pushes his free hand into my hair, gently tugging at it so I’m forced to look up at him. His breath fans across my face, his lips only inches from mine. “And why is that?” he asks.

“Because . . .” My mind scrambles for answers as my subconscious begs for the rest of my clothes to be torn off. “I’m upset with you.”

“So? I’m upset with you, too.” His lips graze over my skin, trailing along my jawline. My knees are weak, my mind is heavy and cloudy.

I crinkle my brow and ask, “Why would you be? I didn’t do anything.” My stomach clenches when his hands move to my backside, squeezing and kneading slowly.

“Your little show on the bar was enough to send me to the fucking madhouse, not to mention the fact that you were parading around town with that fucking waiter; you disrespected me in front of everyone by staying with him.” His tone is threatening, but his lips are soft as they travel down to my neck. “I want you so bad, I wanted you at that shitty bar. After watching you dance like that, I wanted to take you into the bathroom and fuck you against the wall.” He presses himself against me, and I can feel how hard he is.

As much as I want him, I can’t allow him to blame everything on me.

“You . . .” I close my eyes, relishing the feeling of his hands on me, his lips on me. “You are the one . . .” I can’t form a solid thought, let alone make a sentence. “Stop it.”

I grab his hands to stop them from groping me further.

His eyes flash, and he drops his hands to his sides. “You don’t want me?”

“Of course I do, I always do. I just . . . I’m supposed to be mad.”

“Be mad tomorrow,” he says with that evil grin of his.

“I always do that, I need to—”

“Shh . . .” He covers my mouth with his lips and kisses me, hard. My lips part, and he takes full advantage, tugging at my hair once more, dipping his tongue into my mouth, and pulling me as close to his body as possible.

“Touch me,” he begs, reaching for my hands. I don’t have to be told twice; I want to touch him, and he needs the reassurance. This is the way we deal with things, and as unhealthy as it is, it doesn’t feel that way when he’s kissing me like this and begging me to put my hands on him.

I fumble for the buttons on his shirt, and he groans impatiently, using both hands to tug at either side of it, popping off the buttons.

“I liked that shirt,” I say into his mouth, and he smiles, his lips against mine.

“I hated it.”

I push the fabric down past his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His tongue is slow in my mouth, and I’m melting in his arms at the rough yet incredibly sweet kiss. I feel the anger and frustration behind his lips, but he does his best to hide it. He’s always hiding.

“I know you’ll leave me soon,” he says, moving his lips down to my neck again.

“What?” I pull back a little, surprised by his words, and confused.

My heart aches for him, the liquor making me even more sympathetic toward his feelings. I love him, I love him so much. But he makes me feel so weak, so vulnerable. The moment I allow myself to believe he’s worried, sad, or upset in any way, it’s like all my emotions shift, only focusing on him and not myself or how I feel.

“I love you so,” he whispers, dragging his thumb slowly across my lips. His bare chest and torso look heavenly against his black jeans, and I know I’m at his complete mercy.

“Hardin, what—”

“Let’s talk later. I want to feel you.” He guides me to the bed, and I try to ignore my mind screaming at me to stop him, not to give in to him. I can’t, though. I’m not strong enough to stop myself when his callused hands are running up my thighs, pushing them open slightly, when he’s teasing me with an index finger running over my panties.

“Condom,” I pant, and his bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“What if we don’t use one? What if I come inside of you, you wouldn’t be . . .”

But he stops himself, and I’m glad. I don’t think I’m prepared for whatever it was he was going to say. He lifts himself off of me, stands to his feet, and saunters over to the suitcase on the floor. I lie back, staring at the ceiling, trying to sift through my drunken thoughts. Do I really need Seattle? Is Seattle important enough to me to lose Hardin? The pain that courses through me at the thought is nearly unbearable.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says from across the room.

When I sit up, he’s staring down at a small piece of paper in his hand.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks as his eyes meet mine.

“What?” I look down at the floor; my dress lies in a pile on the dark hardwood with my shoes. At first I’m a little confused, but then I look down and see my bra lying on the floor. Shit. I hop up quickly and attempt to grab the paper from him.

“Don’t play stupid with me—you got his fucking number?” He gapes, holding the paper above his head so I have no chance of taking it back.

“It wasn’t like that, I was mad and he was—”

“Bullshit!” he shouts.

Here we go. I know that look. I still remember the first time I saw that look on his face. He was pushing over the cabinet at his father’s house the first time I saw his face twisted in anger this way. “Hardin—”

“Go on, call him. Let him fuck you—because I sure as hell don’t want to.”

“Don’t overreact,” I beg. I’m too drunk to get into a screaming match with him.

“Overreact? I just found another guy’s number in your dress,” he hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched in annoyance.

“You aren’t innocent here either,” I remark as he paces back and forth. “If you’re going to yell at me, save your breath. I’m done fighting with you every single day,” I say with a sigh.

He points at me angrily. “You do this! You’re the one that constantly enrages me; it’s your fault that I’m like this, and you know it!”

“No! No, it’s not.” I struggle to keep my voice down. “You can’t blame everything on me. We both make mistakes.”

“No, you make mistakes. A shit ton of them, and I’m sick of it.” He tugs at his hair. “You think I want to be this way? Fuck no, I don’t. You do this to me!”

I stay quiet.

“Go on, cry,” he says, mocking me.

“I’m not going to cry.”

His eyes go wide. “Well, surprise, surprise.” He claps his hands in the most degrading way possible.

I laugh. Which stops him.

“Why are you laughing?” He stares at me for a beat. “Answer me.”

I shake my head. “You’re fucked up. I mean colossally fucked up.”

“And you’re a selfish bitch. What else is new?” he snaps, and my laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

I rise from the bed without a word, without a tear, and grab a T-shirt and shorts from the drawer. I pull them on hastily as he watches me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

“Leave me alone.”

“No, come here.” He reaches for me and I desperately want to slap him, but I know he’ll stop me.

“No, get off of me!” I shake my arm from his grip. “I’m done. I’m so done with this back-and-forth. I’m tired and exhausted, and I don’t want to do it anymore. You don’t love me—you want to possess me, and I won’t let you.” I look straight into his brilliant green eyes. Straight through them, and say, “You’re broken, Hardin, and I can’t fix you.”

His face falls at the realization of what he’s done to me, and to himself, and he stands in front of me with all emotion pulled out of him. His shoulders sink, and his eyes are no longer brilliant as he stares back at me, finally seeing a blank expression mirrored back at him. I have nothing left to say, he has nothing left to break inside of me or himself, and by the way the color has drained from his face, he’s finally realized it.