“I don’t believe you,” I whisper and move across the room toward him. I stop in front of his chair. “Tell me I’m not your type to my face.”
He’s so close that I can see the individual lashes framing his blue-green eyes and can smell the soap on his skin underneath the cologne. My heart is beating too fast, and my grip on the sketchbook is white-knuckled. Moving this close to him was such a bad idea.
“Say it.” I reach down and grab his jaw, my fingers pressing into the stubble along his cheek as I gently tilt his head toward me. Before I can pull away, his hand shoots up and wraps around my wrist, holding me in place.
“I’m exactly your type, and you can’t stand that.” I’m shocked by how steady that came out.
His grip tightens. “Why are you doing this?”
Neither of us moves.
“Because Ihateyou,” I whisper, needing to step away.
His pulse hammers under my palm, and mine is racing to match it. The tension between us has shifted into a moment that feels inevitable. I should pull away from his face, but my thumb continues to slowly brush his cheek. I should put distance between us before we do something we can’t take back.
Instead, I hold his gaze and wait.
“Kendall …” My name comes out rough. “I fucking hate you too.”
His other hand grabs my hip and pulls me forward, and I tumble into his lap with a gasp. My knees land on either side of his thighs, and my skirt hikes up as I struggle to find my balance. His hands grip my hips to steady me, and suddenly, I’m straddling him, my chest pressed against his, my face inches from his mouth.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, but his fingers are digging into my hips hard.
“The worst,” I say breathlessly.
“You should stop,” he warns.
“I can’t.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel him harden beneath me. His body gives every inch of him away when his words try to push me back. The heat of him seeps through my skirt, and I shift, grinding down enough to make both of our breaths catch.
“Fuck,” he whispers before our mouths crash together.
The only response I can muster is a moan. This is controlled, deliberate, like he’s been planning exactly how he wants to unravel me. Our tongues slide together, and he growls into my mouth as I rock against him. As his hands slide up my thighs, my skirt is pushed higher.
I roll my hips, and I know if I keep doing this, I’ll come. Heat is already pooling in my stomach, and I need this. His mouth breaks from mine to drag down my neck as I continue moving against his thickness. Patterson’s teeth scrape against my pulse,and I gasp, my fingers fisting in his hair as he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. Every nerve in my body is on fire as I feel how big he is beneath me. The only thing that keeps us apart is the thin fabric of my thong and his jeans. I desperately need more of him.
“Patterson …” His name comes out like a plea. “I need to come.”
“Do it.”
His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing my collarbone through the silk of my blouse. His fingers tweak my nipple, and he pulls me tighter against him, grinding up as I press down. The friction is so good that my eyes roll back. My head falls back, and his mouth finds my throat, sucking and biting.
“Come for me.”
My body shakes, and my pussy clenches as I lose myself on his lap. I moan against his shoulder as I ride out the wave, and I can’t remember the last time I orgasmed so damn hard. Maybe never. I’m breathing heavily as he holds me.
Eventually, he speaks, and his voice wrecks me. “You’re so fucking se?—”
A knock on the door makes us both freeze.
“Knock, knock.” My father’s voice comes through the wood.
Panic shoots through me like ice water, and I scramble off Patterson’s lap, nearly falling in my heels. My skirt is bunched around my waist, and my blouse is untucked. This is a fucking nightmare because I can already feel the mark forming on my neck.
“One second!” I call out, yanking my skirt down.
With shaking hands, I grab my camera from the table.
