Page 422 of Hate Mates

He’s right.

I was.

Shamelessly begging him for all he could give me. Despite the pain of him taking my virginity, I wanted him again and again. The more it hurt, the more I loved it.

On my back, on my knees, all fours, bent over the table, in the shower.

Every position.

Every place he could come inside me, he did.

And then he left.

The memory of waking up bloody, sore, and alone, cools every craving I have for him. “I was drunk. I don’t remember any of it and I’m glad.”

I’m lying, and he knows it.

After offering me a slow nod, he returns to his dinner. “The ubiquitous Hurricanes. Always taking the blame for the drinker’s decisions that they later regret.”

“I regret everything that has to do with you.”

I swear I see agony in his dark blue eyes. Is it possible I’ve hurt his feelings?

God I hate this. He’s making me a bad person when I’m really not.

I just don’t want to marry a man who doesn’t love me.

I don’t want my choices made for me.

I don’t want to miss out on who I’m supposed to be.

Guilt overcomes me, and I force myself to settle down. I take a few deep breaths and taste my meal that’s as bad as Lucian implied the entrée would be.

The silence unnerves me. Lucian always has a smart aleck remark or a wise crack to purposely aggravate me.

Instead, he stays silent as he slices his potato with the precision of the murderer that he is. Like a fool, I let my conscience drive my need to fix the situation. “You’re right. This food is not good.”

I brace myself for his gloating. Now I’m surprised when he smiles agreeably at me. “Sunday I’ll take you to Nonna Rose’s.”

With our usual cadence restored, I smirk back at him. “Good, then I can tell her again we’re not getting married.”

His head falls back with a deep laugh that sparks my heart. Even though I’m still infuriated with him and our situation, I’m relieved he’s back to normal.

I shouldn’t care yet, somehow, I still do.

We eat quietly yet the tension has evaporated. The waiter discretely slides the bill between us, not attempting to guess who is paying. Obviously, I grab for the paper because I’m sure as hell not going to let him buy me anything.

Lucian doesn’t stop me – just continues eating but says my name in a low, rumbly voice that is like a lightning rod to my nipples. They harden painfully against my bra from the same dominant tone he used when we were in New Orleans.

I ignore the situation and dig around in my bag for my debit card. While he sets down his fork and slides out his wallet from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. He casually tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the forty-two-dollar tab and rises. His stunning sapphire eyes watch me as I fumble around.

Damn, he’s annoying.

Of course, the server appears just at that moment and swipes up the plastic sleeve and the cash. “I’ll be right back with your change.”

Lucian never takes his gaze off of me. “Keep it.”

The man does a quick calculation. “Thank you sir. Thank you very much.”

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