The Boy I Hate(55)

He looked up at her, his voice deep with warning. “What are you doing?”

She shook her head, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t want to think anymore.” Her heart was beating wildly, like a frightened bird, begging to be set free, but she couldn’t make herself move away. She wanted him, wanted him so badly she couldn’t think straight. She fell to her knees, to the patch of bed between his thighs, and he didn’t move away. They were face-to-face for the first time in far too long, their hearts beating as one, and her body surged with sexual awareness.

She couldn’t resist him any longer. She didn’t have to. His scent was all too familiar, and she remembered it like it was yesterday. Masculine, earthy, raw. “I want you so bad it scares me,” she whispered.

He let out a hard breath. “Samantha.” There was a warning in his voice, low and soft, but he wrapped his arms around her waist, contradicting himself. He buried his nose in her hair. As though he knew this was a bad idea, knew it would lead to nothing but pain, yet he couldn’t walk away any more than she could. He needed her just as much as she needed him. Like the sea needed the shore, like he needed oxygen to breath.

“How many drinks have you had?” he asked. His breath in her ear sent goose bumps down the length of her body.

She arched her back, allowing his five o’clock shadow to brush against her neck and her sensitive skin. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered.

She pushed her fingers through his hair, gripping him, cupping his skull. She touched her lips to his throat, inhaling deeply.

A groan came from within him, deep and guttural. He shifted her to his lap and pulled her closer until her legs were spread and she was straddling his hips. The hard fabric of his waistband pressed against her sex, and the thin fabric of her shorts was doing nothing to dull her senses. The friction sent a surge of fire to grow in her belly. So strong she had to stop herself from calling out.

At first she froze, because she wasn’t sure how far she wanted to take this. She’d broken up with Steven less than six hours ago. She and Tristan still had two days ahead of them on their trip, but her body quickly took over all thought. Her hips moved, almost involuntarily, as though she couldn’t take any more deprivation. She’d denied herself too long, lied to herself too long, and her body was finally protesting.

She lowered her mouth to his neck, letting her tongue run along the sensitive skin of his throat. “You make me feel things, Tristan. Things I’ve never felt before with anyone.”

He groaned again, grabbed hold of her face and kissed her. It wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t sweet. It was rough and textured and layered with want. Her hips moved against him again, circling, grinding, and rocking against him, back and forth. She could feel the tension building, could feel him hard beneath her.

His hands held her face steady while his tongue pushed into her mouth. It was a hungry kiss, a starving one. It was so urgent, raw, overwhelming, that she almost forgot to breathe.

The tension climbed inside her, excitement all-consuming, freeing her thoughts and senses. They were both completely clothed, yet she’d never been more aroused in her life.

As quickly as it all started, he lifted her from his body and tossed her onto the bed. He rose to his feet, as if he’d just been pricked by something sharp, and raked his hands through his hair. He stepped backward, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Every feeling of want collapsed inside of her, the heat in her belly quickly became frigid, like a bucket of ice had just been dumped over her head. She was mortified. Nauseated. She rolled to the side of the bed and put her feet to the ground. Her stomach churned sickeningly.

“Samantha,” he said, still out of breath.

But she didn’t answer. She couldn’t, because if she opened her mouth, she might cry.

“Are you okay?”

She closed her eyes, knowing full well she wasn’t, but taking every last drop of willpower, she turned to face him. He looked tired. Tortured. Confused.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I couldn’t be better.” She rose to her feet, walked to the bathroom, and flicked on the shower. She stripped off all her clothes and stepped under the water, so quickly it didn’t even have a chance to warm up.

It was six years later, yet she’d let the same thing happen. Somehow he’d snuck under her walls, made her believe he’d changed, yet he couldn’t have been more the same. He was the same Tristan who’d broken her heart all those years ago, and she was stupid enough to let him do it again.