Seven(32)

He wasn’t watching her. Wasn’t looking in her eyes. Wasn’t holding her in his arms. Wasn’t saying her name. Wasn’t calling her “love.”

Wasn’t saying he loved her.

The pleasure was still building each time he slammed back into her, but she couldn’t watch him anymore. She squeezed her eyes shut instead.

This was what she’d wanted, a reminder of the true nature of their coupling. Nothing deep, nothing intimate, nothing that was anything more than physical.

What it was was good. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Something other women could only fantasize about.

But it wasn’t enough for Amy.

So she finally admitted it to herself. Maybe she was foolish and impossibly greedy, but she wanted—she needed—so much more.

And everything changed. The feel of Owen moving roughly inside her became painfully bittersweet. Her shoulders started shaking, and she could barely make them stop. Tears burned in her eyes, so she squeezed them closed to keep the tears from falling.

This was supposed to be nothing more than hot caveman sex. It was wild. It was impersonal. It embodied the true nature of their relationship.

And it would probably be the last time she’d take Owen inside her body.

She’d lost control over her life, her heart, her world after all, and now she couldn’t keep doing this. Even just for twenty-eight more days.

It would be an injustice to her heart.

She loved Owen. For good. No going back. And she needed to be loved in return. She couldn’t settle anymore for meaningless sex.

Couldn’t give her body to a man when she wanted so much more. Even if that man happened to be Owen.

Even if she happened to love him.

She couldn’t help but grieve over what it meant, even as he fucked her hard from behind.

The momentum of her orgasm faded completely, but she tried to hide it from him. This might be the end, but she wanted to feel him come inside her one more time. She kept her eyes shut and tried not to cry. Continued whimpering, although less from desire and more from heartbreak now.

Owen froze with a wrenching groan, his cock inside her all the way.

Before she had time to process that he’d stopped, he’d leaned over her. Cupped her cheek with one hand. “Amy?”

“What…why…” she stuttered, trying to form a coherent question.

His breath was hot and damp on the side of her face, and she could feel his weight pushing her into the hard wood of the dresser. “I thought this was what you wanted,” he said in a raspy whisper.

She wanted to look at his face, but she couldn’t open her eyes. If she did, all the tears she was trying to hold back would overflow. “It is.”

“No, it’s not.” He pulled his weight off her and then pulled out of her completely—leaving her feeling empty in more ways than one. His voice was uneven. He’d been on his way to climax and had to stop abruptly. “If it was, you wouldn’t be crying.”

“I’m not crying.” A tear leaked out of her tightly shut eyes, belying her words. One of his fingers found the tear and flicked it away. “That’s just because it feels so good. I'm just overwhelmed.”

She had to open her eyes so she could see Owen’s expression. He looked sober and intense and unreadable as he shook his head slowly. “No. That’s not what it is.” He pulled her up off the dresser and, before she knew what was happening, he had lifted her off the floor, cradling her in his arms. “I thought I was giving you what you wanted. You should have told me you didn’t want me that way.”

“I did,” she said, instinctively twining her arms around his neck and nestling against his strong body. “I was the one who instigated it, remember?” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “What about number seven?”

He laid her gently on the bed and lowered himself beside her. Caressed her face with such tenderness that the lump in her throat threatened to suffocate her. “Fuck number seven,” he said hoarsely. “Amy, tell me what’s wrong.”

She just wasn’t brave enough to tell him. She’d lost control of too much already. She couldn’t lose control of everything. “Nothing,” she mumbled, giving the lie one more try.

Owen felt warm and big beside her, and he was gazing at her with an intensity she didn’t understand. “Amy, tell me what you want.”

She wanted him to love her. Wanted him to stay with her and not go back to London. Wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

“I want to try for number seven,” she said at last, meaning it for one last time, reaching up to stroke his thick, damp hair.

He shifted his tense body and studied her carefully. “Are you sure?”