Page 120 of The Way I Hate Him
The passion.
I melt under the feel of him taking control, finally giving in to my need for him...and it’s the best feeling I’ve ever experienced.
His lips part, and I reciprocate, then he’s kissing me with such intense passion that I’m panting. The sharp scruff of his five o’clock shadow rubs against my sensitive skin as he opens his mouth, looking for more, his tongue seeking out mine. I let out a long moan, swiping against his tongue as well, trying to soak up every moment.
But that one swipe is all it takes to wake him up, and before I can kiss him one more time, he’s standing from the bed, shoulders tense, a look of disbelief in his eyes.
“Fuck,” he says, dragging his hand over his mouth. “Shit, Hattie, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re . . . you’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk,” I say, desperation clawing at me, telling me to pull him back down.
He shakes his head. “Your eyes are glassy, and you’re having a rough night. I shouldn’t have . . . fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.”
Of course.
This is how it always goes, right? I take one step forward, and he sprints two miles away.
I know he enjoyed that kiss. I felt it with how tightly he gripped me and with the way his mouth worked over mine. If he wasn’t into it, he never would have kissed me back, and never with tongue.
But this is how it is with us—he won’t let this attraction between us be something.
I stare up at the angled ceiling, frustrated, and say, “Just leave, Hayes.” The short euphoria I just experienced evaporates with every look of guilt I see flash through his eyes.
I don’t want his guilt.
I want him.
All of him.
His hands.
His kisses.
His heart.
Feeling his gaze on me, I turn away and bring the blankets up to my chin, tucking myself away from the world.
“You know why, right, Hattie?” he says. Credit to him for at least sounding tortured.
“Yes, you don’t have to repeat yourself, but you do have to leave. Don’t bother locking up.”
I hear him step away from me, his shoes sounding against the hardwood. I squeeze my eyes tight, holding back the tears until I hear the door shut behind him, but when the light turns off, and I hear the distinct plop of his shoes coming off instead of hearing him walk down the stairs, I grow confused.
What is he doing?
I turn around just in time to see him grab a pillow from a chair in the corner, and he plops it on the floor next to the bed. With a throw blanket in hand, he lies on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Going to sleep.”
“Why aren’t you leaving?”
“Because I don’t want to leave. Not when you’re drunk. Not when you’re clearly going through something. I want to be here for you.”
“But that’s the thing, Hayes,” I say, unable to hold back my emotions clawing at my tight throat. “I don’t want you to be here for me. I don’t want you near me, not when . . . not when I can’t have you.”
“Trust me, Hattie, you have me in every fucking way. Whether you want to believe it or not.”
