But the last thing I want to do is talk about our feelings when he’s balls deep inside of me, so I clasp his face between my palms and crash our mouths back together. I push my tongue between his lips and he lets me in, his hips moving quicker when our tongues begin to dance. I’m an arrow to his heart—a dagger to his defenses. He knows what I’m willing to give and he takes every piece, every breath, every accidental crumb.

And then we’re grinding against each other, nails scratching, tongues vicious and angry, bodies full of raw desperation. I open my mouth to speak, suddenly craving more. I’ll never know if it was the goddamn wine, or maybe I’m just irrevocably fractured, but three words spill from my mouth that make Dean go still: “Tie me up.”

He looks at me, a light sheen of sweat casing his brow, his blue eyes wide and troubled. He halts all movement, and even his breathing goes shallow. I stare up at him, wishing I could swallow those words back down.

He deflates then, like a child’s balloon or a wounded animal. Like I stole something precious right out of his hands. Dean pulls out of me and drops his forehead to mine as I sit there in silence, my legs still wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he mutters, but not out of anger—not out of spite. It sounds like hopelessness. He untangles himself from me and steps back, tugging his jeans up over his hips.

Heat flames my cheeks as I rest propped up on my elbows, spread eagle and exposed. I feel like he can see right through me, right into my tormented center, where my guts and ghosts and darkest parts are utterly vulnerable. I snap myself into action and slip down from the table, pulling up my sweatpants without meeting his eyes.

“What the hell, Cora?”

I spare Dean the tiniest glance as I smooth out my hair. He’s facing me, fingers perched on his hips, his gaze riddled with heedful regard. “It was nothing. Forget it.” I storm past him, making my way to the bedroom. “I assume we’re done here, so feel free to let yourself out.”

He’s hot on my heels. “No. We need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Are you kidding me?” He grabs my wrist, spinning me around as we enter the bedroom. His tone turns sober, his shoulders dropping. “This isn’t okay.”

“Then, go. I’m not keeping you here.”

Dean’s jaw clenches as he tries to hold back his frustration. “I thought I could do this. I thought I could live with whatever the fuck this is, whatever scraps you were willing to give me… but this is killing me. It’s killing both of us.”

I repeat my statement slower, putting emphasis on each word. “Then, go.”

“Is that what you want?” His hands rise, resting on my shoulders, and his breath catches. “Because when I walk out that door, I’m not coming back.”