Page 147 of You've Got Hate Mail
I don’t drive anyone mad.
Not in the good way, at least.
“You make me feel like I’m not broken,” I whisper.
His eyes flicker open. “You’re not broken.”
“I felt like I was when I got here. Am still, sometimes.”
He shifts, reaching into his back pocket before pinning me to the bed. “You’re not broken, Cricket. You’re built for a kinder world.”
“Do you know how impossible it is to not like you?”
“Yeah. I’ve tried.”
I crack up.
He grins, and then he’s kissing me again, slow and soft, tasting like me, and I know.
I know this isn’t a one-time thing.
This isn’t because he’s sacrificing his penis on the altar ofCricket wants to get laid, so I guess I’ll suffer through it so that she doesn’t have to log in to a dating app.
He likes me too.
He said so.
And in my experience, a guy doesn’t do the slow, soft, thorough kisses with a woman he doesn’t like.
He traces my ears with his thumbs while he pins me to the bed with his body and kisses me until the ache is building between my thighs again, his hard-on pressed against my pussy.
I’m soaked between my thighs and getting wetter, and I can’t resist rubbing myself against him.
He groans low in his throat.
Condom.
He had a condom.
We should?—
Something clatters overhead, and we both freeze.
He looks up.
I stare past him at the ceiling.
“Fluffy?” I whisper.
Footsteps pitter-patter, and Heath lets out a softfuck.
Fluffy doesn’t make that noise.
Lavender does.
He’s on his feet and pulling his pants up in a split second, leaving me naked and suddenly chilled.
I know it’s not personal.
