I breach the opening of the lounge and find her by the window, her back to me. It’s a tactical move on her part. She knows the affect we have on each other with just a look. Just a touch. She knows I can eliminate her despair. If she’ll only let me. “Please, look at me, Ava,” I beg, trying to adopt a gentle approach. Give her space. Tell her rather than show her that we’re meant to be. “Ava, please.” And yet despite my better judgment, my hand lifts and feels her arm. She jerks away, and it’s like a knife to my heart.

“Please, don’t touch me,” she says, facing me. I momentarily avoid the sheer determination in her stare, unable to face it. But I must face it.

So I look up at her. I see detachment.

“Why did you even take me there?” she asks, her voice worryingly stable.

“Because I want you with me all the time,” I admit unashamedly. “I can’t be away from you.” Because I love you. I need you.

“Well, you’d better get used to it because I don’t want to see you again.”

“You don’t mean that,” I say, feeling my eyes stinging. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“I mean it.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” I whisper. I was trying to protect her. From me. From my reality.

“Well, you have,” she snipes coldly. “You’ve trampled into my life and trampled all over my heart. I tried to walk away.” Her jaw rolls angrily. “I knew there was more than meets the eye. Why didn’t you let me walk away?”

“You never really wanted to walk away.”

“Yes, I did.” She loses her battle to retain her emotions, her eyes brimming. It’s both relieving and crushing. “I fought you off. I knew I was heading for trouble, but you were relentless. What happened? Did you run out of married women to fuck?”

I flinch. How could she say that? “No, I found you,” I say, moving forward, but she maintains the distance, stepping away. She’s scared of my touch.

“Get out,” she orders, making her escape. I reach for her, missing her arm, her pace too fast for my lagging, worn-out muscles.

“I can’t. I need you, Ava.”

“You don’t need me!” she shouts, flinging her arm out toward the door. “You want me.” She pulls up, gasping for air, the pure level of her anger exhausting her. “Oh God, you are a dominant, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Why the control issue then?” she asks. “And the commands?”