“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers. “Your nightmare.” “I hate you.” “I don’t.” “You’re fucking crazy.” “About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan. He doesn’t push away. He certainly does not turn his face or look like he’s uncomfortable with the attention. In fact, the exact opposite happens. His lashes flutter over his cheeks as he groans, and I eat that sound the fuck up.
