Page 501 of Coal Hearts

I couldn’t. Not possible. I could accept I lusted for him. I could tolerate appreciating him when he defended me, but love?

Nuh-uh. No way.

How could I love the man responsible for this tragedy?

I couldn’t.

Ever.

But...you can like him.

I paused, sinking back into need.

Yes, it was tolerable to like him.

I liked his particular brand of pain. Delivered with feelings and fears—his feelings and fears. I liked that each time he touched me, he left little souvenirs of his lust, bruises of his desire, and scars of his affection.

A tidal wave of want flowed far too swift and savage.

I trembled on his lap.

My skin burned with the need to be marked, gripped, squeezed, and autographed. Facets of myself unlocked in the dark, unfurling and embracing without scorn or worries.

Who cared about right and wrong, love or hate?

Right now, I wanted him.

I wanted him to deliver bliss as well as brutality.

I wanted him to kiss me, then bite me, caress me, then fuck me.

No, I wasn’t a masochist.

I was a Mercerchist...or a Wardchist... whichever surname he now went by.

I laughed under my breath.

I’m a Mercerchist.

It could be a new catch-phrase.

I could put it on a t-shirt.

He could tear that t-shirt off with his teeth—

Oh God.

Rolling my shoulders, I sat heavier on his straining erection. “It’s not a fever.” My vision became hazy, my eyelashes heavy. “I’m on fire.”

“You need antibiotics.”

“My blood is burning, Hen.”

“Stop that—”

“No, you stop it.” I moaned and fell onto him, burrowing my face into his strong neck.

With another bed-shaking growl, his hands slipped off my shoulders and landed on my hips. He went to shove me off—