He couldn’t believe after he’d made her listen to the truth, after he’d told her he loved her, that she’d told him she’d had fun and said goodbye. What the fuck did she mean, anyway? One didn’t pour their heart into another’s hands only to turn to say, “Well, I had fun, but I never really want to be with you again.” Did they? He damn well didn’t. He’d given himself to her in every way possible, and she’d rejected it all. She should have just shot him in the heart—it would have hurt a heck of a lot less. He sighed, rubbing his neck. No, really, the whole thing reeked of unfairness. His treatment of her. Her blasé reaction to his confession. It all…well, it sucked. Yet, he would have sworn he’d seen something in her eyes while he’d made love to her, leading him to believe she’d felt more than base lust. Apparently, it had been put there by his own desire to have her love him, his own need to hold her until they turned old and gray. Pain squeezed his heart, demanding he lash out at something.
