“Get it over with.”
I keep my eyes on the sink, refusing to meet his reflection in the mirror. The sting comes, the sharp, tearing pull of old stitches being removed. My hands curl into fists against the sink. I glance at him in the mirror despite myself. His hair falls in his face as he focuses on my back.
The alcohol burns next, sharp enough to make me bite down a hiss. I keep my gaze fixed on the white porcelain, pretending I don’t feel the heat of his body so close, pretending I don’t know the weight of those hands on my skin.
When the tugging stops, he straightens behind me. His reflection looms in the mirror—broad shoulders, black ink curling over strong forearms, his frame so much bigger than mine it makes me look small. Breakable.
He leans in, reaching around me with clean bandages, his forearm brushing my breast.
“Stop,” I snap through clenched teeth.
His mouth curves in a ghost of a smirk as he smooths the bandage over my skin. His fingers linger, circling my lower back, tracing patterns into my skin as though he has every right to touch me.
Unwanted heat burns my chest and cheeks. I shift forward to get away, but his hand slides to my hip, holding me in place.
“I’m almost done with you. Stay still.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, more to myself than him.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps tracing those slow, maddening circles, his fingers skimming over the edge of thebutterfly inked into my skin. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and my breath catches.
His hand slides from my back to my lower stomach, his large palm pulling me flush against him. His head drops, lips brushing my ear.
“You keep saying that, kitten. But I’m not sure you even know what that word means.”
“What?”
“Hate.” His fingers press harder into my abdomen and I gasp. My head tilts back on its own accord, resting against his hard chest. “It’s such a strong emotion, isn’t it? So powerful. So…all-consuming.”
“I—”
His mouth skims over my skin, and a shiver betrays me.
“I know you’re angry.” His fingers dip lower, grazing the waistband of my leggings. “I know you’re afraid. I know you want to fight me. Hurt me.Killme.” His lips brush my shoulder, heat searing my skin. “But you can’t kill me, Arlo. Because deep down, in those places you won’t even look, youwantme.”
His hand presses between my thighs, over my mound. My breath stutters.
“Stop,” I manage.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Do youreallywant me to stop?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is screaming, but my body—my traitorous, pathetic body—melts into the heat of him, the weight of his hands, the way his scent fills my lungs.
His fingers find my clit, and my hips jerk against him. My control slips, unraveling strand by strand.
“See,” his breath skims my ear, “you can say you hate me. But this—” His finger slowly circles my clit. A moan threatens to claw its way out of me, and I bite it back. “This doesn’t lie. This wants me.”
“Priest…”
“Shh…we both need this.” His tongue drags up my neck. His fingers work in lazy, steady circles that make my knees weak.
He’s everywhere—his heat, his hands, his voice—and it’s suffocating. And I hate myself for every pulse of want tearing through me.
What the hell am I doing?
I can’t let him do this again.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.”
