Page 40 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
I laugh again, harsh, and sharp. “You do not get to decide what I am, Liam. After all, I believe I am much worse in your eyes.”
“Yes,” he bites out, stepping closer to me. There is little to no space between us. “You are much worse…, and I hate that you are forcing yourself into my life.”
“Forcing myself?” I scoff, crossing my arms. “Do not flatter yourself. I am here for work, remember? Not you. You are a past tense in my life…, I want you to get that in your thick skull. I have moved on…”
The words are barely out of my mouth when his hand wraps around my waist and presses me close to him.
“You haven’t moved on,” he growls, his voice rough, almost broken. “Don’t stand there and lie to my face, Hazel.”
“Let go of me.”
“No!” His other hand moves to my waist, and suddenly, he is looking at me like I’m both the solution to his problems and the cause of them all. “You don’t get to walk away after saying that.”
“I can say whatever I want, Liam,” I snap, my heart racing. “Because it is the truth. You just cannot handle…”
His lips crash against mine, stealing my words and my breath in one swift motion. For a second, I freeze, my mind struggling to catch up with what is happening. Then, instinct kicks in, and I shove against his chest, breaking the contact.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, glaring at him, my voice shaking with anger.
His breathing is ragged, his eyes searching mine. “You.”
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
He does not respond, his eyes burning with something I can’t quite place.
“Don’t ever…”
Before I can respond, his hands slide to my waist again, and this time, his lips find mine with a fierceness that matches my anger. I want to slap him, to push him away, but the fire between us is too intense, too consuming. My hands curl into his shirt, clutching it tightly as the kiss deepens, messy and unrelenting.
I hate how my body responds. Hate how my anger melts into heat, pooling low and fast. My fingers tingle in his hair, and I pull hard, eliciting a low growl from him that sends shivers down my spine.
His hands are firm but not rough, holding me close as if daring me to pull away again. My fists press against his chest, caught between shoving him off and giving in, and damn it, I give in.
My fingers curl into his shirt, clutching the fabric tightly as his lips move against mine. His tongue slides against mine, and for a second, just a second, I forget about everything else. The anger, the hurt, the tension, the years of unspoken words—it all burns between us, messy and unrelenting.
The taste of him, the feel of him, is too familiar. Too sharp. Too everything.
I hate him.
And I want him.
It is infuriating how both feelings can exist at once, tangling and suffocating me until I can’t think straight.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His forehead rests against mine, and I am still trembling, though whether it’s from anger or something else entirely, I don’t know. I am still holding his shirt, fingers curled tight in the fabric.
“That,” he breathes, his voice rough like gravel, “was a mistake.”
I nod, but I do not let go.
“Big one,” I agree.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes flickering to my lips one more time.
The only sound is our breathing, loud in the space between us.
“You drive me out of my mind,” he whispers, his voice raw.
“And you,” I whisper back, my voice trembling with emotion, “make me wish I’d never met you.”
