Page 99 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“Good girl,” he rasps, and those two words alone make way for the strong, maddening pulse between my legs. “You’re probably still sore. Why don’t you go ahead and give those new piercings some ice?”

I swallow hard, my hand skirting down my chest to rest the ice cubes flat against my stiff, puckered nipples. I let out a loud, embarrassing gasp at the sensation and clamp my mouth shut. I figured they’d still be sensitive from last night, but there is no pain, no discomfort as I twirl the ice cube around the piercings. Only this infernal heat. Zapping through my entire body like thunder.

It feels like Xavier’s here.

In my bed.

Touching me.

As though he’s reading my mind, he grits out a pained, irritated “Fuck, it should be me.”

I squeeze my thighs together to relieve the pressure between my legs. Sorry. Better luck next time. The pulse only grows stronger, and I know there is no stopping my unraveling.

“Why the fuck isn’t it me, L?” His voice has this carnal edge to it. “Why am I not the one touching you right now? Fucking why?”

I visualize it.

Imagine it.

See his tongue teasing my pierced nipple, and a soft moan shoots out of my mouth before I can stop it. This seems to trigger him because he groans a low, desperate “Christ, just tell me who you are. Fuck the pact. Fuck the secrets. Fuck it all. Just tell me who are you, L. Please. Let this be real.”

The sentiment fractures my heart into a billion tiny pieces.

I want it to be real, too.

More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but “real” is the scariest place a fragile, damaged heart could go. And mine’s as fragile as they come.

I don’t reply, breathing heavily down the line, but he doesn’t take offense to it, venturing down a dangerous path.

“Take it off. Everything

.”

The ice has now completely melted, leaving but a puddle dripping down my chest, but it doesn’t stop me from complying. I suck in a quivery breath, tug on the waistband of my leggings, and slide the fabric down my thighs.

“Ashley, honey? Are you upstairs?”

Shiiiit.

Hurried footsteps come booming up the stairs.

My mom is home.

The footsteps increase in volume, and it dawns on me that I have three minutes tops before my mom swings my bedroom door open and catches me half-naked on my bed.

To ask me where her precious Ashley is, no doubt.

Ash’s been acting out since she broke up with Logan the loser—don’t ask. She won’t tell us why. She comes home later and later every night, won’t tell Mom where she is, skips two singing lessons out of three. I’ve been covering for her as much as I can, but there are only so many places my superstar sister could be in our small town.

“Ashley?” Mom shouts again.

Panicked, I hang up on Xavier without a goodbye and jolt off my bed, rummaging through my room for my clothes. My leggings aren’t too much trouble to put back on, but I can’t find my shirt.

Where the fuck is my shirt?

By some unknown miracle, I spot an oversized hoodie I left on my dresser a week back and sling it over my head barely two seconds before Mom swings the door open.

Xavier