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“I didn’t say that either.”

I can feel the tears in my eyes. I can feel the frustration mounting. I’m so annoyed. I just want him to talk to me, and he won’t.

Why can’t he just tell me the truth?

Sighing, I move to swing my leg over him, so I can retreat back to the bedroom, but the hand he has tangled in my hair is holding fast. I can’t get away.

He slams his mouth hard against me. His lips move against mine, hungry and demanding. It’s a kiss that steals my breath, my thoughts, and maybe even my very soul. A soft moan escapes my lips and he swallows it down, stealing it like it was his to have all along.

I kiss him back, stumbling and clumsy, but purposeful.

My hands slip between us and begin to explore, to seek, to find. I slide them down between us, until they reach the hem of his shirt. And then, tentatively, I dip my fingers beneath, touching the bare skin of his stomach.

His skin is so hot, like it’s on fire.

Like the fires of hell that I deserve.

Lustful whore.

He groans into my mouth, a low, feral sound that bounces around in my skull. I let my hands wander even lower, tracing his muscles, the lines of his tattoos, and lower still, beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wears.

And then, I feel it.

The hard, unmistakable evidence that I was looking for.

It’s hard. And the skin is really soft.

And…

Is it supposed to be that big?

My heart leaps.

My fingers wrap around it—well, mostly. They don’t meet on the other side.

That doesn’t seem… normal?

I break the kiss, gasping for air. My body trembles, my mind races.

This is too much, too fast.

I’m scared—no, I’m terrified.

But it’s not enough, somehow, at the same time.

I want more, need more.

I need to forget.

I want him to be the only one to touch me—the only one who ever has—but I know that’s not possible.

What does that mean?!

Do I love him?

“Draco,” I whisper. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Sit on my fuckin’ face, Mercy.”