Page 120 of Bitter Lies

After, he pummels me so fiercely, my knees are practically around my neck, the sounds of my cries intermixed with his growls ringing out as he fucks me brutally. And with a shout, I come, bathing him with my juice, before he pulls out, flips me over, and slides into me from behind.

“Oh god,” I moan as another flutter passes through me, and it’s so wretchedly sweet, I’m afraid, but he fucks me through it and pushes me to the brink, to which I cry out and spasm again.

“Fuck, so good,” he groans, fucking me through my orgasm as he pounds me deep and swears under his breath.

“Take it. Take it deep.” He grabs my hips and grinds into me heavily as he groans and pants against my neck. With a grunt, he sucks my sensitive skin between his teeth and bites down, and I clench around him helplessly, crying out as he spews inside of me on a moan.

“Fuck,” he pants before collapsing against my back.

Shuddering below him, I shift when he pulls my back to his front and drowse as he sleeps soundly behind me, the quiet rise and fall of his chest gentle where his need can never be.

∞∞∞

“You want to—what?” I ask dubiously.

“Finish what we started, unless you’re scared?” he says with a playful lilt, but I see a determined glint in his eyes.

“Why? It’s done. There’s no grade.” Shit. I can’t do this, I think, even as my chest burns at his taunt.

His playful expression drops to seriousness as he searches my eyes. “Because I always finish what I start.”

A shiver runs down my spine at that, and I turn away because I don’t know what that means and finishing the questionnaire from Psych 101 sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.

Why do I feel like he’s trying to mine for all my secrets?

“C’mon,” he says gruffly, sitting down at the table once more.

The last time we did this, he pretended not to remember things about me and stormed from the table when I shared a piece of myself.

And now we’re going to do it again?

Sitting down stiffly across from him, with my arms crossed defensively over my chest, I nod.

He looks me over curiously before crossing his own arms over his chest, which distracts me long enough for him to ask his first question because, as we’ve established, his fucking arms are my kryptonite.

“What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

“What do you have these memorized?” I chuff, and he raises an expectant brow. “Fine.”

Mulling it over for a minute, I rub my mouth. “Confessing my sins.”

“Which are what?”

“Nope, my turn. What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

He looks at me steadily and there’s no hesitation in his response. “Walk away from the thing I wanted most.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what, but I rein myself in when I remember I already nixed those types of follow-up questions.

“Why do you hate music? You used to love it?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

With a fierce glare, I stare at him before giving in. “Because it brings bad memories. Why did you keep stuff about me in your closet?”

He leans back in surprise, and I smirk. That’s right, if you’re going to snoop, then I am, too, fucker.

“So, you were looking through my closet,” he murmurs, and I flush, caught out.

Shit.

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