When he pulled away, he whispered, “Still hate me?” “Always,” I said, desperate to either shove him back or pull him close. I gripped the quilts. Erik’s mouth turned up in a half grin, but his words were rife in something soft, something vulnerable. “Hate me all you want, but don’t regret me. Promise me that.” Then I was left alone and wanting. Don’t regret me. If I were wise, that was exactly what I should do. I ought to regret letting my enemy put his mouth on my skin. I should retch at the idea he’d drawn out pleasure and sounds I didn’t know I could make. I should regret Erik Bloodsinger,
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