I’ve never, in my life, experienced anything like the chemistry between us. There was no denying what we both wanted. And yet, he pulled back.

He chose restraint over happiness, control over cravings. It was infuriating. And so damn sexy.

I couldn’t help myself when I reached down and smoothed that damn wrinkle between his brows. Just like I couldn’t help myself when I cried all the way home. If that was the only comfort I could offer him, then that’s what I would give. I didn’t walk away on Wednesday night because I wanted to go. I walked away because it was the kindest thing I could do for him.

He guided me out of the alley with soft, gentle care. But he didn’t walk me to my car, and I didn’t push him. It felt like he’d already surpassed his limit. And I didn’t want to contribute to the self-loathing I knew he was already drowning in.

In the blink of an eye, my silly little game of cat and mouse became a quest for control and survival. And now I don’t want to play anymore. Not if my actions caused the look on his face when I left him in the alley and drove away.

I’m heartbroken for him.

To yo-yo from one extreme to the next… to snap back from the moment and refuse himself of what he clearly wanted…

I can’t think about what happened Wednesday night without feeling guilty. And horny. I’ve had to recharge my vibe twice over the last seventy-two hours, yet nothing comes close to dulling the ache he left between my thighs.

We’re both responsible for what happened. I’m the one who took off down the alley. I’m the one who led us down that path. But I know he’s a big boy, and he had a choice. I may have extended the invitation, but he’s the one who pushed me against those bricks and kissed me first.

I texted him on Thursday to say I was sorry about what happened and to offer to bring his jacket back the next time he worked. I knew he had to be working that night since Jake was off. But I felt like I needed permission before I just waltzed back into The Oak.

When he didn’t respond, I tried to call him on Friday, knowing he wouldn’t answer. I don’t know what I would have said if he had, but I wanted to hear his voice and know that he was okay.

Any semblance of friendship that could have existed between us went out the window on Wednesday, but I hate that he might hate me—or worse, that he hates himself because of me.