“Chick,” he muttered. “Satan,” I replied. “Tell me you don’t love me.” “I can’t do that.” “Yes, you can. Tell me you don’t love me. Please,” he begged. His lips brushed against mine as shivers raced through me. “No.” “Then tell me a lie,” he pleaded. “I hate you.” I breathed the words against his lips, and he swallowed them whole, as if they were the way to his existence. “I hate you, too,” he lied back to me, making a tear roll down my cheek. “But I hate you the most,” I swore. “I love you,” he told me, gently kissing my lips. It was so gentle that it almost felt like fiction. Like something
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