Page 43 of Hard to Love

“A pussy?” he scoffs.

“You’re goddamn right, a pussy. Get a little spooked that God forbid the world thinks you’re dating me? I’m sorry that the prospect is so bad you have to quit.” My voice breaks on the last words and I hate myself for it.

Screw this.

Screw him.

“I hate you,” I grit out and push against his chest, but this time he grabs my wrists with an iron-like grip.

“I’m not real thrilled with you either.” His eyes lock on mine and I can feel his heartbeat against my hand.

“You’re a bully.”

I hate you.

I want you.

Why does it have to be you?

“And you’re a rebel.”

“Well, aren’t we quite the pair,” I murmur, the anger suddenly ebbing as desire fights its way to the surface.

Our eyes lock. My breath hitches as he exhales oh, so slowly.

And then from one beat to the next, his lips are on mine. The kiss is hungry and angry and frustrated and ravenous all at the same time, if that’s even possible.

It’s like we’re fighting without words, each of us needing more from the other and taking it with scrapes of teeth and licks of tongues.

“I don’t like you like the article suggests I do,” he grates out before fisting his hand in my hair and forcing my head to tilt up.

“Good. Great. Neither do I,” I say, the last word coming out as a moan.

“This is just sex.” His free hand cups my ass and presses me against him.

“Just sex,” I repeat before his mouth meets mine again in another soul-emptying kiss that leaves my body aching for more and my head swimming with the sudden shift in gears.

His hands. They feel like heaven as they roam over my body with an angst and demand that tells me he’s battling the same battle I am—desperation meshed with anger.

His kisses. They’re greed tinged with need woven with hunger.

His groans. So guttural, as his hands map my body and find their way inside my shorts to push them down. An aural seduction.

His cock. Jesus. Can he just put it in me already?

“Finn,” I moan, needing more, wanting more, despite being furious at him.

His teeth scrape over my shoulder as he unbuckles his pants and shoves them down to his ankles.

There is no time to remove shoes, no need to take shirts off.

The only thing that matters is the end game. The climax after the rise. The blissful fall after the ravenous fury.

“Hurry,” I urge as his hand finds its way between my thighs.

“Christ, woman,” he groans and walks us backward where he swipes whatever is on the table off with his hand before pushing my ass against its edge.

His mouth is on mine again. Bruising and sensual and fraught with necessity as he pulls a condom out and protects us.