“Do you still hate me?” I whispered, when I started to fall asleep. I blinked hard once then twice, forcing myself to say awake so I could hear his answer. His fingers stroking down my bare arm paused. “Just like pain is subjective… hate is all grey areas, no black-and-white certainties.” His hand brushed over my breasts, cupping one heavy mound, before pinching my nipple. Hard. “I hate you but I crave you. I hate you but I need you.” As if to prove his words, he bucked his hips up, his hardness digging into the curve of my ass. “Hate is too simple a word to describe what we have, what I feel
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