Page 83 of The Way I Hate Him
You stupid motherfucker.
What the hell did you do?
“You would leave me turned on? That’s shitty,” she says, her post-orgasm haze dissolving quickly.
“That’s what I am, Hattie. A shitty person, I never tried to be any different.”
“That’s such bullshit, Hayes,” she replies, stepping forward, but I move past her and grab my bottle of tequila. “You’re not that man.”
I lean in right next to her face and say, “And I’ve told you over and over again, I am that man. You’re off limits, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Go to bed. Forget this ever happened.”
And with that, I head toward my bedroom with one thing on my mind, getting my cock in my hand and the rest of this bottle into my stomach.
I fucked up.
And now I need to erase it from my memory.Pathetic, Farrow, just pathetic.
* * *
Tequila didme fucking dirty last night.
Usually, we get along. Usually, we have a good time. Usually, we can easily forget the next day.
Not this time.
Tequila didn’t let me forget one goddamn thing.
Not the sound of Hattie’s gasps in my ear.
Not the feel of her tight nipple under my finger.
Not the way she shuddered under her own hand as she came.
Not one goddamn thing.
Instead, tequila imprinted every fucking moment of squaring her off against the fridge in my mind to the point that I woke up with such a huge erection that I had to take immediate care of it in the shower, despite making myself come last night the moment I got back to my room.
And I still feel uneasy.
I still feel like I could explode at any minute.
Like the key to the release of this pain, this pent-up desire restsinsideHattie only.Fuck, to be inside her hot pussy.
It’s a brutal reality that forced me out of my house so I didn’t have to see her this morning. Not sure I could withstand seeing her morning hair and the semi-unsatisfied look in her eyes.
It’s why I’m in town right now, headed to The Sweet Lab for some coffee. Anything to get this crushing feeling out of me.
I set my helmet on my bike, pocket my keys, and then head toward the front of the store. Hands in my pockets, I round the corner just as another person collides with me, spilling coffee between us.
“Fuck,” he says. “I’m sorr—”
But his voice dies off as we look up and make eye contact.
Ryland Rowley.
It was bound to happen. The town is small enough for us to bump into each other, but this . . . this feels so much heavier than when we ran into each other in the past. Because this time, I have the sounds of a turned-on Hattie lingering in my brain.
Ryland’s brows drop, and he backs away. Luckily, neither one of us got coffee on our clothes, just over his hand and on the ground between us.
