Page 100 of The Ruthless Note

Need.

Heat.

Desire.

It’s a rolling piano riff. The lowest octave. The darkest notes.

I hook my fingers around his waist, pulling him closer. Closer.

More.

The taste of him is sweeter than I remember. Or maybe it was always this sweet.

Forbidden fruit tends to be.

And how much sweeter is the fruit that’s not only forbidden but bad for you?

Fabric flutters around my thighs and I’m so distracted by his kiss that I don’t realize he’s pushing my skirt up until his fingers start squeezing and grabbing at me.

A deep jolt of energy floods my body.

It feels like raw electricity. Like getting struck by two bolts of lightning all at once.

His breathing deepens when I moan. I hear it over the loud thudding of my heart. My pulse is a skitteringarpeggio, a broken chord. Notes struck one by one instead of all together.

And although there’s some part of my brain that says I should let him go, try to catch my breath or at least get the upper hand, there is no time to listen. Dutch doesn’t give me a chance.

His mouth presses hard against mine, taking over and demanding everything I have. His touch is so close to where it needs to be. My breath catches then surges out as I shift my hips to give him access.

He traces a line down the inside of my thigh, teasing me. Torturing me.

I drag my teeth across his bottom lip, nipping him in desperation. A quiet plea for him to…

I don’t even know what.

Free me from this hopeless existence?

Make me feel something other than discardable and worthless?

“Dutch…” My voice is rough and broken. Just as he is. Isn’t that what inexplicably lures us to each other. Isn’t that why we can’t stop revolving around each other even if it hurts?

He’s just as broken as I am. Maybe more so. He has more things, more fame, more money—but he’s miserable.

Pathetic.

We’re both so pathetic.

Even if he knows how to hide it better.

Dutch smirks as he moves his lips to my neck. He’s so damn sure of his appeal, so arrogant. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. How defenseless I am. How tight my body is clenching in anticipation ofmore.

But he doesn’t give me more.

His hand slides back to my waist and the other cups my chin. He holds me there, keeps my head in place and kisses me tenderly. Like I actually mean something to him. Like we’re not just two clashing cymbals moving frantically off script.

My heart flutters and I hate it.

I hate it to death.

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