Did he move forward too? She didn’t know. Somehow, they were mere inches apart.

Willing herself to stop, Claire broke their gaze and looked down. Seconds later, she felt the warmth of his finger and thumb lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Obstinately, she lifted her chin, but kept her eyes shut.

The rich baritone voice commanded, “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Tipping her forehead against his broad chest, she inhaled. His cologne filled her senses as she mumbled, “I can’t.”

She felt his words rumble from his chest. “Look at me”—it wasn’t a request—“I want to see your damn eyes—now!”

“Please, please, Tony—don’t. I can’t take another rejection—not from you.”

Lifting her face, his lips brushed hers just before his words softened and he asked, “Why did you show me that?”

He hadn’t released her chin when her eyes finally opened. Looking up, she knew, despite her claims to the contrary, not only did he control her chin—he controlled her heart. “So that you’d know...I have faced our past—multiple times. Even knowing that past, I wanted a future.”

His words dripped with heat, each one blowing a warm breeze against her cheeks, “Wanted? Past tense?”

She wanted to say, no, I want, but she’d been hurt too many times. Her indignation rose. “You don’t want me!”—“You left me in the Iowa jail!”—“You told me two weeks ago you wanted a divorce!”—“I can’t live in a fantasy! You don’t want me”—“or a future with me!”—with each phrase, her volume grew—“let go of my chin and stop pretending!”

He obeyed her demand and released her chin; however, relinquishing his hold wasn’t even feasible. Forcing her to keep her face tilted toward his, Tony slid his hand to the back of her neck, while his other hand wrapped around her petite frame. He didn’t think or reason as his lips captured hers.

For two weeks, he’d tried to let her go. He’d wanted to release her and give her the freedom she deserved—the freedom he’d taken away so many years ago, but—each day, each hour, each minute, each second—was agony. When Tony wasn’t near Claire—he thought about her. When he was near her—his energy was devoted to fighting his desire. It was exhausting. With his lips against hers, he no longer wanted to fight. His chest pushed against her, moving them, step by step, until they were flush with the wall. His needs intensified as he felt the sensation of her breasts against him. He told himself to stop—he was no good for her—but he didn’t listen—he couldn’t. Unapologetically, his tongue penetrated her lips, and his grasp pulled her hips against his.

Momentarily, Claire’s fists pushed in protest. Soon, she realized resistance was futile—mostly because—she didn’t want to fight. His actions had her on the verge of forgetting any reasonable arguments. All she wanted was the present, then Tony’s voice rumbled like thunder, and his fist pounded the wall above her head, “I told you before, I’ve never pretended to love you! I do love you! That’s present tense!”

While the wall vibrated, she watched the illuminations of darkness dance through his eyes. She’d wanted to see emotion and now she had it! Before she could respond, his body pinned her against the wall. The scent of cologne mixed with musk overpowered her olfactory senses. Her body liquefied at the sensation of his lips and hands. She heard the sound of her own heart beating as the rush of blood pulsated too quickly through her veins. Soon, their ragged breaths filled her ears, and she fought to regain the breath he’d taken. Her body was mindlessly responding to his touch as his desires became more pronounced and her moans echoed through their large suite.

Before long, he led her to the bed, and her world tilted as he followed her onto the mattress. Her body ached for everything he could offer, but her mind couldn’t take another disappointment. While his hands found their way under her blouse, she found the strength to speak, “Stop.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated herself, louder, “I said, stop!”

She saw the pain in his expression as he pushed himself away.

Rolling out from under him, she exclaimed, “You need to go. I can’t do this. I won’t let you hurt me again.”

“Claire, don’t you understand?”—The emotion in his voice stilled her movements, as well as her speech—“That’s why I wanted a divorce. I don’t want to hurt you and—and I can’t take it again, either. You talk about me leaving you at the jail and this divorce”—he stammered—“W—what about you?”