Page 142 of Hate You More

“What?” I go with brazening it out.

“You’re not paying attention.”

“I am. I’m paying attention to you.” I did say brazen, didn’t I?

Her hair falls forward as she ducks her head to hide her expression. I reach out and hook it once more behind the shell of her ear. Tell me you’re obsessed without saying so, right?

“What are you doing?” she whispers, chewing a little on the inside of her lip.

“I told you, I’m paying attention. I like it when you’re enthusiastic.”

She slides me a look that makes me want to laugh. So, yeah. I’m always thinking about sex.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says, swatting her hand to my chest. It begins to slip away, but I don’t let it, the tiny hitch in her breath twisting something inside me.

“But you kind of love that about me,” I say, my words all sandpapery.

Our eyes lock, and between this breath and the next, our lips are fused together and we’re kissing. Fuck, are we kissing. Bypassing the slow buildup, we jump straight to throw-down moves. Our mouths are hot, and wet, and carnal as I seize her by the waist and back her up against the fridge.

“What are we doing?” she rasps, tilting her head to give me better access to her throat.

My hand skims up her body, shaping her breast. “If you’re going to say stop, say it,” I growl. Please don’t say it.

“We shouldn’t. We said . . .”

But she tastes too fucking good, and her tits are already heaving under the thin knit of her sweater. I shouldn’t look—I shouldn’t suck her over the cotton like I’m trying to persuade her of something.

Her body bows, but then her hands find my shoulders and I know what’s coming.

“I heard your husband isn’t home tonight.” My words are all growl and, my brain, when it catches up, is pretty fucking impressed.

“You heard?” Her answer is tremulous. Amusement. Excitement. Maybe a little relief.

“Yeah, when he called me and made a booking.” I press my lips to a tender spot beneath her ear, hoping she’s not about to call me out. The jar. The apartment.

“What did my husband say?”

Thank you, Jesus. “He told me he didn’t want you to be lonely while he’s out there, working hard. Or was that hardly working?”

“How.” She swallows. I feel it as I press my lips there. “How thoughtful of him.”

“He seems like the thoughtful type. Thorough too.” I slide my finger into the waist of her jeans and her breath hitches as I find skin. “Told me he wants you to come at least twice before he gets home.”

“When he’ll be too tired to make it a third.”

Never. “Well, he’s paying me a lot of money.” I pop the button. Unzip her fly. “So maybe I can take care of that for him.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I come with a guarantee.”

She laughs, the sound joyous, sweet and thick. I want to suck it from her mouth. Inhale it for posterity. “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

“I come with a guarantee. You’ll come when I tell you to.”

“Big talk, but I think I should see what my husband is paying for.” Her fingers shake as they begin to pluck at my shirt buttons.

“Allow me.” Yanking the cotton from my waistband, I reach between my shoulder blades and pull the shirt up and over my head. Then mic-drop it to the floor.