I especially hate her. I hate that she’s exactly what I like: a girl who doesn’t back down when I have my wicked way with her. I hate the sound she makes when my belt meets her ass. I hate the shade of red her skin turns, and how that fucking ring glints on her finger when pleasure makes her hands clench into fists. I hate that “look but don’t touch” is a hard and fast rule. It has to be, because I know the moment I taste those lips—either set of them—there’s no way I can go back to London. I know I’ll have to stay and fight for her.
