Page 82 of The Way I Hate Him
I remove her hand and then say, “Spread your legs.”
“Hayes, I’m not—”
“Spread them. Now. I will not say it again.”
She spreads them. I cover the back of her hand with mine and bring it between her legs.
I won’t touch her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use her hand to touch herself and give her what I want.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” I ask.
“Only . . . only when I’m alone.”
“How do you like it?” I ask. The thought of her masturbating spurs my need for her.
“Two fingers,” she answers.
I wet my lips and press her two fingers against her clit. She exhales sharply as her body leans against the fridge again.
“Tell me what your pussy feels like. Describe it to me.” I move her two fingers in tight circles, rubbing against her clit. Her hand falls behind her, steadying against the fridge as she trembles from the touch.
“Warm,” she answers. “So fucking wet, Hayes. Drenched.”
“Hell,” I mutter, leaning in closer.
“I’ve never been this turned on, ever.”
“It’s why I shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper, picking up the speed, knowing she’ll fall over quickly from the reaction I’m already getting from her. “This is dangerous. You’ll want more, and I can’t give that to you.”
“Give me what you can,” she says, her breathing more labored. I reach down and take her loose hand in mine. I clasp her hand with mine and bring it above her head while we massage her clit to the point of no return.
“This is it,” I whisper. “Nothing else and never again. Don’t ask for it. Don’t beg. This is all it will ever be.”
“Fuck,” she says, her body shaking. I release my hand from between her legs and prop it against the fridge, not wanting to feel her come close to my fingers. I won’t be able to withstand it. “Hayes, I need you.”
“Make yourself come,” I say as I release her other hand and step back.
Her eyes widen in surprise as I move all the way to the island and place my hands on the counter, holding myself in place.
“Hayes.”
“Do it, Hattie,” I say in such a dark, sinful tone that her hand pauses momentarily. “Make yourself . . . come. Now.”
She gulps, and to my fucking demise, she slips her other hand under her sweatshirt, dragging it up until it reaches her breast. There, she cups her breast, kneading it and flicking her nipple. I stand there in fascination, watching the whole time as she brings herself closer and closer.
Her breath frantic.
Her legs shaking.
Her head falling back as her neck tenses . . .
“Fuck,” she cries out as her fingers wildly fly over her clit, her body shattering before me as she comes. Once she catches her breath and her eyes meet mine, she says, “If I didn’t do that, if I didn’t make myself come, would you have left me like that?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Why?”
“Because I told you I was trouble, Hattie. You were warned.” My brain snaps out of the haze I was just in, reality smacking me so hard in the face that it feels like I’m suffering from whiplash.
