Page 62 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
Stars erupted under my skin. I gasped, my fingers and toes curling in response to the sudden surge of flaming electricity ripping through my body. My legs quivered, my lungs seized, and I had no control over the shuddering moan that writhed out of my throat. Waves of pleasure rippled underneath my skin, wringing my sanity dry before finally allowing me to crash.
And then everything went very,verystill.
Dominic had frozen against me. He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing, and while our mouths were technically still fused together, it was more from genuine shock than anything else.
I eased back, so lightheaded that I would’ve toppled over had he not been holding on to me.
What the fuck just happened?
There was no way that was what I thought it was. He’d barely touched me. His hand wasn’t even fully inside my underwear yet.
Dominic’s swollen lips were parted, his pupils dilated enough to signal a potential medical emergency, and he was gaping down at me with the drunkest, most dumbfounded expression I’d ever seen on a person.
He was out of breath, pink in the cheeks, heavy-lidded, and kept having to halt his body from shifting forward again.
“Did you just…”
Crimson embarrassment crept over every inch of my skin. My teeth clamped together. I shook my head. “Nope.”
His tongue flicked out to wet his pillowy lower lip, and he blinked a few times, like it might help him parse out what’d just happened. Then his forehead pinched, and he moved his fingers, dipping them further down and into my soaked center.
I bit my tongue as the friction made my stomach wither, trying to keep a straight face. But my nails were digging into his round, muscled shoulder, my body was quivering again, and—oh. Fuck me.
I was so wet that his finger slipped right in, curving at an angle that made my left knee give a tiny involuntary kick. The back of my head was tingling. White spots dotted the outskirts of my vision. I was going to start panting again.
“So you didn’t just come,” he murmured, his palm gently pressing to my oversensitive everything.
I shook my head again, my lips sealed as I pulsated around his finger, giving myself away. “Mm-mm.”
His hand moved again, and I almost tore out of my body.
“It’s been eighteen minutes,” I blurted, fully, wholeheartedly embarrassed by how much power I’d just handed him. “I don’t… I don’t think I’m drunk anymore.”
He eyed me for one skeptical beat, then gently retreated his hand. His fingers were drenched with the evidence of how much more one of us wanted the other.
I wanted to crawl into the ground, shut the lid, and never come back out.
Refusing to allow my attention to gravitate down to the unreasonably generous bulge tenting his pants, I gingerly pushed myself off the counter. His eyes tracked me as I stepped around the island on shaky feet and tore a paper towel off its roll. I held it out for him, unable to meet his gaze.
My fingers were trembling, my skin was flushed, my booming pulse was thrusting the rest of me into a full nervous breakdown, and I likely wouldn’t be able to recall my ownmother’s maiden name until my brain stopped crying, but I could still control my actions, my words, and how much of myself I was willing to give him.
And the less of me he kept once our thirty days were over, the better.
So when he opened his mouth again, I said, “We were too drunk to remember anything. Your words.”
A stubborn glint sparked in his eyes, and he crumpled the paper towel in his fist as he sucked in another breath… only to pause like he’d just noticed something. “Wait, what’s that smell?”
My head was so scrambled that I had no idea what he was talking about at first. Not until his brows crumpled and he followed it up with, “Did you order food?”
Then I remembered.
“Shit.”
I snatched the mitts out of the drawer behind him and opened the oven, retrieving the steaming, bubbling dish right as it was starting to burn around the crisp, golden edges. Placing it on the stovetop, I quickly shut the door and turned back around, blocking it from his view.
“Are we done here?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice even. “I want to finish up with the groceries and go work out in the garden for a bit, unless there’s something else you need?”
I couldn’t tell what he was more confused about—the food I was very clearly trying to hide behind my back or my complete and utter refusal to acknowledge what’d just happened.
