game over for him. So I press my chest to his. Firm muscles glue to mine and the thud of his heartbeat slams and mixes with my own. What the fuck is this man doing to me? Why on earth can’t I keep my hands off him? Does he have witch blood? Is he made of fucking drugs? “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
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