“You don’t miss much.”
“I don’t date.”
“You’re doing very bad math.” She clearly knows where my brain is going.
“Math is my expertise,” I tell her.
Her fingers curl into my shirt right at my breastbone. Both hands, clutching the buttons on my shirt for dear life. “Do you have any idea how much I could hate you? How much Ishouldhate you?”
“I’m good with you hating me.”
Her lips unexpectedly curve up. “Stop being funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“Welcome to the club, Duchess.”
She whimpers, and that’s the last thing I hear before she tugs my shirt and leans forward, planting those lips on mine, plump and hot and hungry.
“Don’t—call me—that,” she breathes against my mouth.
“Want you—hate me,” I breathe back.
She’s nipping and licking and sucking and I’m not in a cold silver-and-white kitchen in a snowy mountain town.
I’m surrounded by heat and humidity while waves roll to shore, my hands roaming over the soft cotton of her T-shirt down to the curve of her hips under her thick pants.
“Can’t do this,” she says.
“Why not?”
“Fuck me, I don’t know.”
Her tongue plunges into my mouth.
My cock is hard as iron. I can’t touch her enough. Feel her enough.Rememberher enough.
Fuck, Hawaii was good.
When she was just a random woman having a tough night, and all of my primitivetake care of herneurons fired and I felt good about myself and my own worth as a human being for what felt like the first time in forever.
I want to feel that again.
She’s not a safe choice. I know she hates what I’m doing here.
But she understands.
And she’s still kissing me.
Maybe I’m still the moron who doesn’t know she’s using sex to manipulate me.
If I am, I don’t care. I’m not changing my mind about what I’m doing merely because she’s boosting herself onto the table and wrapping her legs around my hips and arching her pussy against my aching dick.
“Oh, fuck, no,” she suddenly gasps.
“What?What?”
