Without thought I slipped into bed with him, untangling the sheet and pulling it over the both of us. He turned to me in his sleep, as if he knew I was there and sought me out. My heart flipped over in my chest and I snuggled close to him, desperate to offer him the comfort he needs one last time.

“I love you,” I whispered against his chest, feeling safe knowing he wasn’t awake. “I wish you could see that and accept it.”

When he finally wakes up, he looks so pleased to find me in his bed that I know we’re going to have sex. I want it, literally crave feeling him move within me.

His kisses set me on fire. His hands are all over my body, touching me reverently, as if I am special. I believe that in his eyes, his mind, I am special, and the thought fills me with so much warmth, so much love, I almost want to cry.

I focus instead on him. On his beautiful body, the way he looks at me when I put my mouth on his in a hard, hot kiss. I kiss him everywhere, memorizing his every line and muscle with my lips, branding him as mine.

Because he is mine. We will belong to each other forever, even if we can’t be together.

I strip his underwear off with trembling fingers, touching him everywhere I can. His stomach, his legs, his erection. His hands shake when he reaches for me and helps me shed my clothes. Within minutes we are a tangled mess of arms and legs, our mouths fused, our bodies connected, as he pushes inside me. So deep, I cry out in pure, exquisite pleasure.

I asked him to make love to me, and God, he does, so perfectly. This isn’t a fast, hard coming together for us. He takes his time with me, as do I with him. His touch, his mouth and hands and fingers, are gentle, reverent, searching as they skim over my body, paying particular attention to all the right places. The spots he knows arouse me, give me so much pleasure I’m afraid I might fall completely apart far too soon. I feel worshiped, beautiful, loved.

Loved.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto him, but I feel so completely connected to him in this very moment. As if he understands me and I understand him. That we’re able to toss aside all past hurts and mistakes and are both finally ready to focus on the here and now.

Wishful thinking, I suppose, since I know it’s not true. But I can’t help it.

And when he moves inside me so deep, deeper, until he’s a complete and total part of me, my orgasm slowly takes over, washing over my skin, through my veins, pulsing through my bones. It feels like an awakening. A realization. My breath lodges in my throat, my belly flutters, and my heart threatens to leap out of my chest.

I’ve never felt so lost, so found, so utterly . . . confused.

So fitting. I’ve been confused when it comes to Colin since the day I met him.

“I hate that I’m taking part in this,” Fable whispers to me when I meet her at the curb in front of Colin’s house. She’d driven Drew’s truck over to pick me up. I’d texted her hours ago, basically begging her to do it. She agreed, no questions asked, but now she’s balking. Can I blame her? It’s five in the morning, the sun isn’t even up yet, and I’m leaving like a thief in the night.

For good.

“Well, I really appreciate you taking part in this because I don’t know how I’d get out of here otherwise.” I throw my one suitcase into the backseat of Drew’s extended-cab truck and climb into the passenger seat, looking at Fable expectantly. “You ready to go?”

She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, looking exceptionally tiny in such a huge vehicle, her small hands gripping the steering wheel. Her long blond hair is piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun and her sleepy-looking face is devoid of makeup, but she’s still beautiful. She wears Old Navy sweats and a T-shirt, fake Uggs covering her feet. I’m wearing almost the same damn thing in different colors, though I don’t bother pointing out that we’re practically twinsies.

Now is not the time for cutesy-type stuff. I need to make my escape. And Fable is uncomfortable enough already with the situation.

“You should tell him you’re leaving,” she blurts out, her imploring eyes meeting mine. “It’s the least you can do.”

“I left him a note.” I tear my gaze away from hers, staring at the dark, quiet house. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, walking away from him. Leaving his bed while he lay there sleeping peacefully . . . I’d wanted to slip right back beneath the covers and hold him close. Never let him go.

But I didn’t. I had to go. It was best for both of us.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“A note is a really chicken-shit thing to do,” Fable says softly. “Trust me, I hate notes. It’s much better to pour out your feelings to someone in person.”

“You love Drew’s poems,” I point out. “And he’s always pouring his heart out in those.” A big, buff football player with a romantic heart, the guy is downright swoon-worthy.

My overprotective, sort-of-demanding Colin is swoon-worthy too. I just refuse to think about him like that any longer. It’s too hard. My heart hurts, I miss him so much.

And I haven’t even left him yet.

“Yeah, I love his poems now. But when he first left me, he left behind a note that both broke my very soul and filled me with so much hope that I knew he’d come back to me.” She smiles, but it’s sad. “He didn’t.”

“What?” I’m incredulous. “What are you talking about?” I thought they were perfect for each other. That they had the perfect relationship. Yeah, I knew they had some trouble and things were rocky at first, but I had no idea he’d bailed on her and didn’t come back.