Page 80 of The Way I Hate Him
“Wrong answer,” I say as I spin her around so her chest and hands press against the fridge. I grab her elbows and push them up so her hands extend toward the ceiling, and then I force her to grip the top of the fridge. Speaking close to her ear, I say, “Don’t fucking let go of that.”
She nods as I take a step back and look her over. The bottom of her ass is showing, giving me just enough of a view to make my mouth water, my body needing more.
In the back of my mind, I’m telling myself to walk away, to leave this girl alone, but my body has other thoughts as I smooth my hand under the sweatshirt and lift it to show off the rest of her ass.
“Spread your legs,” I say, and when she does, I slide my hand down one globe to her hamstring and then to her inner thigh, causing her to tip her head forward and moan. “You planned this, didn’t you? Putting on my sweatshirt, knowing it would make me feel possessive, not wearing anything under it because it would make me feel unhinged. This was all thought out so you could manipulate your way into my goddamn bed.”
“I thought you didn’t want me in your bed.”
I push up against her, letting her feel my erection against her leg. “You know goddamn well that was a lie.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Why are you so mad?”
“Because you’re off limits,” I say, dragging my hand down her ass again and then pulling up between her legs, getting so close to where I want to touch her that I feel the heat of her arousal on my fingers.
“I thought you make the rules.”
“I do, and the rules are . . . you’re off limits.”
“Then why are you touching me?”
“Because you’re tempting me,” I growl and move up behind her, her ass pressing against my crotch as my hands fall to her hips.
“You’re so hard.” She wiggles her butt against me, turning me on even more.
“Don’t do that,” I say, keeping her hips still.For the love of God, don’t do that.
“Afraid you might fuck me?”
“Afraid I might destroy you,” I growl as I move my hands back to her ribs, feeling every bone, every divot.
Her lungs work feverishly under my touch, and as I slowly slide my fingers directly under her breasts, I can feel the pause in her lungs, the catch of her breath.
“God, Hayes,” she groans, her ass pushing against me. “T-touch my breasts.”
“No,” I say, even though my need for her screams yes. I move my forehead to the back of her head and slide my index fingers up an inch, just so I can feel the slight plump of her breasts. “Fuck,” I grumble as a war battles deep inside me.
Touch her.
Take what you want.
Don’t . . . don’t ruin her.
I bite on my bottom lip as my index finger slowly runs north until it hits the point of her nipples.
“Yessss,” she moans, and I snap.
Momentarily.
I glide my index finger over the hot nub, flicking it back and forth a few times, making me so goddamn hard that my erection presses painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper.
“No,” she says. “No, I want this. Please don’t stop.”
The devil inside me wonders how much I could turn her on without touching her where she wants to be touched.
How much will she allow me to feel her, to experience her without giving her what she wants?
