Page 60 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

He was dressed in a white, crinkled shirt and tailored slacks the color of creamed coffee. His sleeves were rolled up, but not entirely evenly. His shirt was tucked in, but not entirely perfectly. No belt. No watch.

It was the most casual daytime outfit I’d seen him in so far, yet, somehow, he still managed to steal my breath with it.

“I’m asking if you’re still drunk. From last night.” The blunt force behind his voice made him sound beyond exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, heavy, and he was gazing at me like a man defeated.

I closed the fridge, studying him as I wiped my hand on my jeans. “I barely had four shots, and it was over the course of?—”

“Me too,” he interrupted hoarsely, half blinking as he moved closer. He tapped at his phone, then threw it on the counter. “I’m still drunk. Wasted, actually.”

What was happening?

My brows drew together as the distance between us tightened, the beaten weariness in his eyes igniting an unexpected ache in my chest.

“So drunk,” he whispered, “that I can’t see straight. I have no idea who you are. Where I am. Or what I’m doing.” Another step. “So drunk, Alice, that I won’t remember any of this in an hour, let alone tomorrow.”

A weightless tingle swept through me when he reached up and dragged a gentle finger over my cheekbone. My heart exploded into a million miniature versions of itself, all of them bouncing, twirling, pittering, and pattering for more of his attention like a hoard of tiny idiots.

“I’m disoriented, my judgment is impaired, and I have no impulse control.” He cupped my face, tilting it as he drew close enough to breathe in.

“Ten of hearts. Five of hearts. Three of hearts,” he murmured, reciting the hand he’d flashed me before I’d fallen asleep. “I have eighteen minutes.”

My lashes fluttered when his thumb brushed over my bottom lip, but I couldn’t seem to summon enough energy or willpower to care.

“Just eighteen. Just once.” He leaned down, grazing my lips with a featherlight kiss that made my knees go weak. Then, in a husky, devastated tone, “Please.”

My mouth fell open.

My mind went blank.

And before I could process what was happening, my bottom lip was wedged between Dom’s teeth. He tugged at it, then flicked the spot playfully with his tongue. My knees almost gave out as he pulled back an inch.

I didn’t move. Didn’t dare say a word or take a breath.

He waited, eyes swimming over my face, looking for a reaction. When I didn’t back away, he slanted forward again and pressed a tender kiss to the same spot.

Pulled away; waited.

Cupped my face with both hands; kissed me deeper.

Pulled; waited.

My arms were looped around his neck before the first minute was up, and I was lifted off my feet by the end of the second. He pressed my back to the wall, wrapped my legs around his waist, and little by little, every layer of reservation I may have still been clinging onto peeled away. Until it was just me, and him, and too many years’ worth of built-up tension and suppressed desire coming to a head.

I was burning. Rabid.Quenched.

Like I’d been wandering through an empty desert my whole life, searching for this exact oasis.

His hair was bunched in my fist as our mouths wrangled and our teeth clashed and our breaths raced. I was trapped, burning in an all-consuming inferno of heat and lust and sexual frustration.

Fireworks exploded over my tongue when he laid claim to it with a rough, possessive lick, their residual sparks sprinkling down my body and settling into a pile of sizzling tingles in the pit of my core. I moaned into his mouth, my hips pressing to his rock-hard length, desperate for a whisper of friction.

He responded with a pleased, almost predatory growl, rewarding my distress with another lick.

I was done for.

Everything burned. Everything was lit up and alive andaching. My hands were roaming over the taut muscles of his shoulders and upper back with greedy indecision, refusing to settle when there wasso muchof him.

I needed more.