Page 95 of PS: I Hate You
“Stop saying my name!” I whirl and glare at him. “I’m the only person in this room! Who else would you be talking to? Justsaywhat you want to say.”
The fucking asshole has the nerve to grin at me. Then he cups the back of my neck in a gentle, yet firm hold and pulls my face to his, pausing when only a breath divides us.
“If I tell you I want to fuck you”—he speaks the words so close our lips brush—“can I kiss you, too?”
Oh.
My pulse thunders, and Dom has to feel my rapid heartbeat with his hand almost fully wrapped around my neck in a possessive, erotic, and yet somehow comforting gesture.
“Well, if you insist that there’s a certain order to these things.” My sarcastic comment comes out breathless. “Keep in mind, we can shuffle what people might label as the traditional sequence of events.”
“Maddie Sanderson.” This time Dom growls my name, and I shiver at the sound of it. “How dare you suggest I do things out of order? I might malfunction.”
I’m in the middle of a laugh when Dom kisses me.
Hekissesme.
Finally.
And as I might have expected with Dom, he takes full control of the action. His mouth claims mine as his thumb presses against my chin, tilting my head into position with a single finger. My lip that he labeled as “pouty” gets thoroughly chastised with a tonguing and reprimanding bite.
What’s more, he doesn’t suffocate me with his kisses. There have been so many times I had to stop a make-out session because my lungs protested the depleted oxygen. But not with Dom. He ravishes my mouth for a moment, then allows me uninterrupted inhales as he focuses on my cheeks, the edge of my jaw, the soft spot just below my ear. Then he comes back for another round of ravishment before letting me breathe again.
Dom is so good with only his mouth that wetness gathers between my legs. I press my thighs together to heighten the sensation.
Somehow, he knows.
A heavy hand lands on my thigh, then sinks between them. Dom cups me over my leggings as his mouth continues to explore and demand. His touch is a weighty, all-encompassing pressure that I rock against. I go so far as to grab his forearm, wrapping my hands around the muscled limb and grinding like he’s a stripper pole.
“Hell,” Dom groans into my open mouth. “You’re soaked. I can feel it.” His hand presses hard, and his tongue drags along mine. “I want to feel more.”
When Dom slides his hold out from between my legs, I let out a pathetic whine. But a second later his fingers slip past my waistband and delve through my curls, a hot demanding touch against my sensitive folds.
At first, it’s amazing.
Everything I could ever want.
His strong fingers approach where I ache, promising pleasure only he can give me.
But then everything about this moment becomes a little too familiar.
Suddenly, I’m back on the swing on the Perry’s porch, Dom kissing me slow, his hand going where only mine had been before. The way he’d touched me that summer was world-altering. He stroked and explored until my body fell apart for him.
And as I trembled in his arms, Dom tucked me close, kissed my neck, and told me I did good.
Then the next day he chose someone else.
Slamming back into the present moment, I shove Dom’s hand away, rip my mouth from his, and scramble off the bed.
Distance. I need space.
But standing, seeing his lips swollen from kisses and his cheeks flushed and his eyes hungry, does nothing to ease the amount I crave him. Or the way I fear what he could do to me if I let him in again.
“Maddie?”
“I can’t do that,” I blurt, and Dom stiffens.
His face begins to shutter, all the wanting he showed me getting forcefully repressed.