Page 65 of Everything You Hate
He goes still. He doesn’t pull away.
I hold his wrist tight. I can feel the pulse under the skin, hammering. I let go and guide his hand back to my waist, where it started. “Not there.”
A second passes. “Okay.”
He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask what happened. He puts his hand back on my waist and pulls me under him, and he lets out a breath he’s been holding.
He kisses me again, slower now, and this is worse. The first version was reckless, momentum and heat and the relief of movement. This is careful. I don’t want careful. I arch against him, rub my thigh against him through the layers of borrowed sweatpants and his jeans, and the next kiss is sharp, more teeth than lips.
“Don’t get careful on me now,” I say.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” His hand slides down instead of up, spreads flat and low on my stomach, presses. “This where you want me?”
“Lower.”
“Ask me.”
“Dean—”
“Ask me.” His voice has gone rough at the edges. “Three weeks I’ve had to guess what you want. Tell me one time.”
“I want your hand between my legs.”
He exhales like I hit him. “Fuck.”
I slip my own hand under his waistband, catch the elastic of his boxers, and wrap my fist around him. He’s already hard. I squeeze, then stroke, and he makes a sound that’s almost a whimper. I want more of that sound.
He buries his face in my neck. “Jesus Christ. Do that again.”
I tighten my grip. The space is tight and his weight is pinning my free arm, but he shifts to give me room, then pushes his hips into my hand.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. “Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve been thinking about it since the porch.”
“Yes.”
“Did you play with your clit while thinking about me?”
My whole body goes hot. “Yes.” I squeeze his cock again, hard, and his whole body bows over me.
He groans, head dropping to my shoulder, breath ragged. Then he rolls, dragging me with him until I’m on top, straddling his hips, knees braced on either side of him, my hair spilling out everywhere. The lamp is still off, but the storm throws shards of blue and white through the porthole, enough to make out the outline of his body, the shape of his jaw, the hands finding my thighs and digging in. He wants marks and so do I. This is not the gentle kind of night.
“Show me how you did it, Hollywood. Show me how you like to be touched.”
I wedge my hand under my waistband, palm flat against myself, and slide until the pressure is right.
The first brush of my fingers on my clit jolts through my body, raw as an electric shock. Dean’s hand presses down on mine, and the weight of it is almost too much.
“Slow,” he says. “Show me. That’s it.”
My fingers are shaking, but I circle the spot the way I do when I’m alone. I do it the way I always have: pressure, then circle, then pressure again, and it’s so much better than alone there’s no comparison. I’m riding his thigh and he’s under me, keeping my wrist steady, dragging his palm up and down my arm in a way that shoots the tension everywhere except out. In the dark, it doesn’t matter what I look like. It doesn’t matterwhat I sound like. Nobody is going to record this, edit it, post it to a million screens.
I don’t have to perform.
The thought alone nearly undoes me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” Dean says, and his hand joins mine, his thumb replacing my fingers on my clit. “Right here?”
A shudder works through me, and my head drops back. “Oh, God.”
