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“No.” She shakes her head. “I felt insta-hate. Like white hot and obsessive. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I hated you.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw the posters on the front of your office before my interview. That’s why I tripped. I’d never seen a law office do that; warn about the signs of sex trafficking. I was touched and impressed. But then I met you and you shot that all to hell.”
She makes me laugh. “How?”
“Because you look like an orgasm of muscles and ink with ice blue eyes that would make God marry the Devil. And don’t get me started on your nose ring and bling.”
“Wow,” I smirk, “my ego’s growing bigger than my cock.”
“That, too,” she confesses. “I clocked your bulge when you stood to shake my hand. I hated every thick inch of it.”
“Yep, that’s growing to hate you, too.”
Cutely, she rolls her eyes. “But then you stalked me for so long, and I finally figured it out.”
“This should be good.”
“This is fact: the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s apathy. It’s when you don’t care. Because hatred requires the same passion as love. But I didn’t trust love when I met you, so I hated you.”
“And now?”
“Now?” Her eyes soften, her hand on my chest gripping it harder. “I love hating you, Axel King.”
Good God, this woman. If this is what romance feels like, hand me a shirtless man book. I’m in.
“Oh, so you still hate me?” I aim my mouth for hers, hoping to wear her lipstick tonight.
“Yes,” she sighs over my lips. “You’re the first man I’ve hated. The only man I’ll ever hate. The man I’ll die hating. And I’m going to live, every day, hating you so much that your heart will grow bigger than your cock and ego combined.”
“I’m going to need more evidence.”
I take Ruby in a kiss that proves more. It’s every sunrise we’ll share. Every night she’ll be mine. Every stupid fuss and stubborn fight. Every child and every memory I will have with her.
Jesus H. Christ, this woman had me at first sight.
“Wow,” she gasps, grabbing a breath. “I really hate your kiss, too.”
“Um, I agree. Your bratty, soft lips are abhorrent.”
“Oh shit,” she gasps, “my lipstick.”
Licking the pad of her thumb, she reaches for my mouth.
But I gently grab her wrist. “Is that your spit you’re about to clean my face with?”
“What?” She laughs. “Your tongue will play tonsil hockey in my mouth, but I can’t use spit to wipe my lipstick off your face before I meet your mother? I don’t think so. Hold still. I need to make a good impression.”
“This is impressive, alright,” I mutter, letting her groom me. “I’m fucking five again.”
“Small price to pay to impress your mom.”
“I don’t need to impress her. Shehasto love me.”
I touch the small of Ruby’s back, guiding her past the guards at our bunker’s double, metal doors. We just gave them a helluva show, and I give zero fucks about it.
I didn’t want Ruby to meet my mom here, but The Queen insisted.