Page 78 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

I cringed as soon as I said it. And again when he looked at me like he thought he’d misheard.

“Never mind.” I tugged at the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

I was out of the car before he could see the blush invade my cheeks, my steps brisk and purposeful as I climbed the stone steps.

“You’re not funny either.”

I stopped short, turning to find him standing outside the open driver’s-side door, eyes pinned to me.

He nudged his chin at me. “And don’t let them water you down with descriptions like ‘charming,’ or ‘witty, or ‘hypnotizing.’ It’s insulting.”

I tipped my head. “Insulting to who?”

He didn’t bother with a direct answer, as though it was so obvious it didn’t need to be said. “I wouldn’t lose my mind like this over something as unexceptional as wit, Alice. You’re indescribable, and anyone who tries to make you believe otherwise is either a bigger idiot than I am or blind.”

I crossed my arms, considering this. “What else?”

In my defense for what happened next, he went on for another fifteen minutes without stopping to take a breath.

25

My back slammedinto my front door so hard, it should’ve hurt. And maybe it did.

I couldn’t feel anything over the all-consuming fire. It was filling my head with smoke, spitting lava over every inch of my body.

My claws dug deeper into Dominic’s scalp and shoulder, my legs already locked around his trim waist as he devoured my neck like it was his chosen last meal. He licked, bit, kissed, and nibbled until he had me right where he wanted: dangling an inch away from death.

“Bedroom,” I demanded, too out of breath to follow it up with any sort of direction.

He could figure it out.

Blindly.

While our mouths were fused.

I fisted his hair, using it to tilt his head back so I could punish him for toying with my life. The joke was on me, though. He liked it, if the deep, lengthy groan was any indication. I bit him again, harder this time, and we almost toppled over.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he panted when we tilted, clumsily knocking into a wall.

We fell onto my bed in a frantic clutter of limbs, trembling breaths, and gutting starvation. I was famished. Parched. Shaking with need.

His shirt came off first.

It was a hard-fought battle. We clawed, yanked, fumbled until every last button was either freed or discarded.

“Just so we’re clear,” I muttered against his deliciously swollen lips, my greedy hands exploring the vast hardness of his bare chest, “this does not mean I condone what you did.”

“I know.”

“And if you do it again, I’ll?—”

“Pain. Violence. Something to do with a sharp weapon and at least one of my vital organs. I know.”

“Good.”

I ripped off his belt. He tore down my zipper.

I tugged. He jerked. We brawled. Until my carpet was littered with fabric, and I was pinned underneath him, my thighs spread to accommodate the delectably heavy press of his hips.