Page 80 of Pretty Cruel Love

Our first dinner lasts six hours.

Our second, eight.

By our tenth date, we’re meeting at a bar that opens early and closes long after midnight. We’ve been kicked out more times than I care to admit, and yet—he never asks me to go home with him.

I know he wants me. It’s obvious in the way he watches me, the way helistens. But unlike the boys I’ve dated before, he never tries to take anything from me. Not even once.

“Sadie?” Ethan waves a hand in front of my face during our twentieth meetup. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I ordered you a drink,” he says, smiling. “You’ve been zoning out for a while.”

“I didn’t realize…”

“Would you like to dance?”

I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me from the booth onto the dimly lit dance floor.

The band’s lead singer is crooning some song I’ve always hated. Something aboutkilling time instead of killing people.

“What if some people deserve to die?” I ask. “Better yet, if they do, who gets to make that choice?”

“Sounds like you need a new major,” he says. “Add psychology to your art and drama ones.”

“No, I’m just talking…”

“Hmmm.” He kisses me.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t flinch. I melt into him, wrap my arms around his neck, let his hands travel down my waist.

When he squeezes my ass, then presses his palm against my bare back, his thumb finds it. The scar.

Then it catches another.

He tilts my chin up. “What happened here?”

“Nothing major.” I fake a smile. “Just a rug burn.”

He brushes his fingers over it again.

His touch is gentle, but it burns in the worst way.

“Tell me the truth,” he whispers.

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Just don’t look at it when we have sex. I mean—ifwe have sex, okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just touches it again, then kisses my neck.

“Come home with me.”

We barely make it through the door of his riverfront condo before he slams it shut and pins me to it.

His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, rough, consuming. My fingers tear at his shirt, buttons flying, fabric yanked down his arms. He spins me toward the kitchen counter, then lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing.

We fuck like fire—fast, hard, everywhere.

The walls.

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