Page 79 of The Way I Hate Him
A smirk passes over her lips. “Getting drunk all alone? Why didn’t you join us?”
“Because I didn’t want to,” I say as I move into the kitchen and set my bottle on the counter. My eyes fall to her bare legs, then slowly climb to her eyes. “You’re eating my cookies.”
“We made them together, so our cookies.”
“My house, my rules,” I say as I take the cookie from her and shove the rest of it in my mouth, causing her eyes to widen.
“Hey, I was eating that.”
“And now it’s in my stomach. Your loss, my gain.” I walk over to the fridge and open it up, looking for anything but pickles to eat, but of course I come up short, so I shut the fridge and lean against it as I watch Hattie pick up my bottle of tequila and bring it to her lips. She takes a swig and smirks at me. “That’s mine.”
“And now it’s in my stomach. Your loss . . . my gain.”
I close the distance between us and take the bottle from her, only to step away, my eyes remaining on hers the entire time. “You should go back to bed.”
“Why’s that?” she asks.
“It’s not safe for you out here.”
“Maybe I don’t want safe.”
“You do,” I say as I take another swig of tequila, my brain feeling too fucking fuzzy to be close to her.
“Or maybe I want to do something dangerous for once.”
I shake my head, but she moves toward me and dances her fingers up my chest. “I’m trouble,” I say.
“Good,” she replies as her hand trails down my stomach, but I stop her, my hand gripping her wrist. And then, in a flash, I twist her so she’s pinned against the fridge, her arm extended above her head where I lock it in place.
Don’t do it, man.
Don’t play with fire.
Drop her hand and leave.
You’re too drunk to even consider being near her.
But common sense never wins when tequila is involved.
“I told you I’m trouble,” I say as I bring the bottle of tequila up to her mouth, and I slowly move the opening of the glass over her plump lips. She parts them, and I tip the bottle up so the liquid flows into her mouth. She swallows the small amount I give her and licks her lips, soaking up every last drop. “Don’t you see that, Hattie? Don’t you see that I’m trouble?”
“I do,” she answers.
“So you shouldn’t be out here with me, you should be in your room, sleeping.”
“Maybe I came out here on purpose, knowing you were in your studio.”
“Why didn’t you just go to my studio?” I ask, lifting the bottle to my lips, wishing I could taste her lips on the glass, but I’m not that lucky.
She watches me swallow the tequila right before I set the bottle on the counter beside her. When she stares up at me, her hand still clasped by mine, she says, “I was too afraid.”
“Good. You should be afraid,” I say as I bring my free hand to her thigh and drag it up to her hipbone. Her breath hitches in her chest. Fuck, she’s not wearing any underwear. “Are you wearing anything under my sweatshirt, Hattie?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
“Bad move.” And then I slide my hand up her side, dragging up my sweatshirt until I reach her rib cage. “Tell me what you want,” I say, my breath heavy, the feel of her soft skin under my calluses so goddamn extraordinary.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
