Savage Little Lies (Court Legacy 2)

“Fuck me,” I gritted, my back arching, my hips rising. “Get me out of my head.”

I wanted him to push me.

I wanted him.

Gripping my jaw, Dorian forced my mouth open, his kiss aggressive, carnal. His hand captured my neck, and I gasped for breath, the adrenaline charging my veins.

“I want it to hurt,” he announced, pinning me beneath him. His weight sunk me into the bed, his eyes wild, his tongue in my mouth untamed. “I want you raw. I want it painful until I can’t feel anything and you can’t think. I want you mine, Noa. All mine and no one else's.”

My breathing labored, a fluttering inside my chest.

“What else?” I was stupid to ask the question, his lips pinching mine apart.

“I want it to be rough. Sweet.” His mouth pressed hard, his hold on my neck tighter. “Because that’s how you feel. That’s how you feel every fucking day.”

I gasped.

“I want to make love to you,” he rasped, his cock probing through his pants. “Because that’s what you deserve, but reason number whatever the fuck is I hate that I want it. I hate that I want your taste, and that I do want it to feel good too. I hate that I need you.”

“Why?”

I was trembling now, and he stopped kissing me. His fingers bunched my curls, his thumb trailing down my cheek. It came away wet, and I knew why.

He always was so good at making me cry.

“Because hating you would be easier, smarter.” His jaw shifted. “I could let go of this, of you, and not give a fuck.”

He was being so honest.

His throat jumped. “Hating you is easier than loving you,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “And you loving me back…”

Back?

His thumb brushed my cheek, and the digit came away wet again.

“Is this,” he said before his mouth touched the tear’s trail on my check. He closed his eyes. “It might always be, but I don’t fucking care.” His tongue drew down my skin. “I can’t fucking care.”

He licked away tears before unbuckling his pants.

“I can’t care, Noa.” Leaving the pants open, he unbuttoned his shirt. “I won’t care.”

He tugged me to him by the thighs and didn’t even take my panties off before shoving my skirt up and burying his face between my legs.

“This is mine,” he ground out, the cry falling from my lips. I wriggled against his face, and he growled. “This is mine, and I don’t fucking care. I’m going to have it. You’re mine.”

His.

He nibbled my lower lips through my underwear, my chest hiking with hard pants. I wanted him to stop. This was starting to hurt, but not physically. My stupid goddamn heart was taking the brunt of this.

Especially when he slowed down.

He kissed me down there, light and feathery kisses across my sex. He hooked my panties over and his tongue did a sweep between my lower lips.

“Please,” I whimpered. “Please stop.”

It hurt, killed being this close to him, physically, emotionally. It did, and my chest tightened, his hair bunching in my hands.

“No,” he rasped, warm breath so gentle against my sensitive flesh. “No, Sloane. I can’t. I won’t.”