Hate You Not

“Step over here,” I tell him.

He steps closer, his head partway inside the shirt. I tug on one corner, and he chuckles. Hell. That little V of muscle there above his waistband. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, wincing at the cuts I made when I broke my ankle, and I tug the shirt up. My fingers brush his hot skin, fingertips skating over his hard muscle.

“Whoa. You’re pretty.”

Did I just say that out loud?

He huffs out a laugh, and my face gets so hot, I swear I’m gonna cry like people eating hot sauce. I push the shirt up more. “Try to pull it off now.”

“I’m trying.” His voice is low and raspy. I lean up a little, wiggling my hand under the T-shirt and pushing my palm up his hard back so I can try to get the shirt around his thick arm, which is what it’s really stuck on.

I feel a trail of chills under my fingers.

“Bend down more. Why don’t you just kneel down beside me.”

He does, his big fist gripping the couch cushion to steady himself since one of his arms is still stuck in my little bitty T-shirt.

“How is this a large?” he moans from inside the shirt.

“I don’t know. It’s been washed a bunch of times I guess. Oh wait!” I cackle. “It’s a youth large! Should have thought of that.”

“You think?”

I can’t help laughing at him. He looks ridiculous stuck in the shirt, like some sort of trapped T-Rex. “Now you’re down here beside me, I can maybe yank this thing off. If we have to rip it, so what? It’s nothing special.”

I move my hand along the shirt’s seam, tracing around toward his right side, and I feel chills on his skin again.

I trace a line with my nail, and he groans.

“What the fuck?” His voice is muffled.

I do it again—because he’s here beside me and his body’s warm and hard and thick, and he’s the devil. I do it because I can. Because his dark nature is rubbing off on me. I stroke my palm down his side, and he barks a groan.

“Jesus. June.” My name’s a protest.

I swallow as his ribcage expands on a big, desperate breath. “Is this your weak spot, Mr. Devil? You like a little back scratching?”

I trail my thumb along his side…down toward where his hip has got that sharp edge of carved muscle, and I can feel him inhale again.

I hear a rip as he tears the shirt off. Then his hungry eyes are locked on mine. His lips are slightly parted, and his chest is pumping. For a second, no one speaks. Then he rasps, “Don’t do that again.”

I don’t know why I do what I do next. I don’t like him. He’s an asshole, and I’ve never been a girl who tolerates a lot of bullshit. Maybe it’s pure animal attraction. All I know is that as I reach for his flawless six pack, I feel like a light that’s been switched on.

My fingers brush his hot skin, and he hisses. His eyes shut. He grits his teeth, and I trace the taut ridge between muscles.

I stroke downward, and lust hits me like a lightning bolt.

He grits out, “Stop.”

“Are you sure?” I nearly cream my panties when I see his bulge coming to life, pushing against his fly. “Because it doesn’t look like you—”

His mouth clamps over mine so hard and fast that I gasp. When I do, his tongue glides inside. He kisses with what’s gotta be some pent-up lust. His lips are hard and hungry—like my own. His hand, on my neck, pushes up into my hair as we taste one another. I grab his head and shoulder, pulling him in closer.

Then he’s straddling my hips. I’m moaning into his mouth. He tastes hot and minty, and his hands are tugging my hair, holding my head as he ravishes my mouth, tightening their grasp on my poor tresses when I grab at his hip.

He pulls back. “June.” Now it’s a warning.

Then it’s back to kissing—frantic. I lift my good leg so my knee rubs him between his legs. He rubs his dick against my hip, groaning loudly as his mouth devours mine.

“Damn you,” he breathes as I wrench away to get a breath.

“Fuck you,” I say before nipping at his chin.

“Oh God.”

I unbutton his pants like I’m racing to some finish line, feeling warm and tight and heavy in between my own legs. When my hand delves into his underwear, he moans again. His hand cups my breast.

“Aunt June?”

OH.

HOLY.

SHIT.

He’s off me so fast it makes me feel dizzy. Margot stands beside the TV, frowning at me first and then at him. He’s on the couch’s other side now, clutching a pillow and smiling in a way that looks a little scary.