Page 111 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“I’d rather do it now.”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m not. Just resting my eyes for a second.”

He sighed. “How about a nightcap? Otherwise,I’mgoing to fall asleep.”

Nightcap sounded good. Caffeine of any kind sounded very, very good.

My whole body felt like dead weight as I dragged myself out of the car and up the steps. Then he was there, taking all my weight away and putting it on himself.

“There you go,” Dom murmured when we finally made it to my bedroom two decades later. I threw off one sock, then flopped onto the bed with a pathetic whimper that made him chuckle.

“Here.” He dropped to his knees in front of my dangling legs, gingerly grabbed my other foot, and peeled away the remaining sock. “Better?”

A little. “I’m hot.”

“I’ll turn up the AC.”

“No, because then I’ll be cold. Just…” I struggled to shrug out of my sweater, completely out of breath by the time I managed to throw the stupid thing aside. “What’s wrong with me? Why am I so tired?”

“Maybe because you didn’t sleep last night.”

“Neither did you.” And he didn’t seem to be fighting to keep his words coherent and unslurred.

“Yes, but I’m not in shock.”

I frowned. “I’m not in shock. Why do you think I’m in shock?”

“Your eyes have been going in and out of focus ever since we got out of the car.”

Had they? Maybe it was because of my jeans. The denim was scraping against my skin, and I felt damp everywhere, and why the hell was it so goddamn hotin here?

“Help,” I pleaded weakly. My joints were losing their structural integrity at an alarming rate. My muscles had thawed into gelatin.

What was happening?

“It’s okay, I got it.” I relaxed when his fingers hooked underneath my waistband, a fresh, more pleasant bout of warmth pulsing through me. He stripped them off my legs with a rough swallow, keeping his gaze fixed on my nightstand as he folded the denim.

Bummer.

I really liked it when his eyes were on me.

“Dom?”

“What?” There was a new, almost pained, edge to his voice. I wanted him to come here so I could fix it.

“Do you have any more secrets that you’re keeping from me?”

“A few,” he admitted, placing my folded clothes on a nearby armchair. “You?”

“A few.” I tilted my head, practically ogling him. “You want to know what they are?”

He quirked a brow, finally meeting my gaze. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing.” For once, there was no catch. For once, I wanted him to know exactly what I was thinking and feeling. Because, for once, I wasn’t scared.

The worst possible thing had already happened.