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.
Gahhhh
