Page 47 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Yes."

"Then why did you follow me in here?"

I don't answer, can't answer. The alcohol makes my thoughts sluggish, my emotions too close to the surface.

"Are you wearing lingerie right now?" His eyes search mine, serious suddenly. "Because if you're not, I'll drop this whole thing. You can walk out that door and we'll pretend this never happened."

The intensity in his gaze is impossible to look away from.

I should leave. My mind is telling me to get the hell out and never talk to him again, but the sudden deep throb between my legs tells me to stay. It dares me to lift my shirt and show him the lingerie I bought just for him. He raises a brow like he knows the answer, and I inhale, allowing the warmth of the alcohol and his stare give me courage.

Against all better judgment, I reach for the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly to reveal the black lace bodysuit underneath — the one I'd chosen deliberately while getting dressed, knowing he might be at this party. I know it's sickening…how I can hate him so much but want his attention at the same time.

His eyes darken with desire, pupils expanding to swallow the amber irises. Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I lower my shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

"You're a bad girl, Saylor," he says softly. "And I'm thinking you don't hate me after all."

Heat floods my cheeks. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" He steps closer. "Did you come to this party knowing I'd be here? Are you mad that I haven't pursued you? Did you wear that lingerie hoping I'd see it?"

Each question feels like a tiny dagger, exposing truths I'm not ready to face. I try to muster defiance, to rebuild the wall of anger that felt so solid moments ago, but it's crumbling beneath his knowing gaze.

Before I can form a response, his hand lifts to my cheek, fingers tracing a burning path along my jaw before curling around the nape of my neck. The touch is electric, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with hate.

"I want to test a theory," he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is nothing like our first—not desperate, not frantic. It's deliberate, questioning, a hypothesis seeking proof. And God help me because I give it to him. Instead of pulling away, I lean in, my body remembering what my mind wants to forget.

When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.

"I want to take you home," he says, voice rough. "Your place or mine. Your choice."

The decision hovers between us, weighted with consequences. Logic screams at me to walk away, to not make the same mistake twice. But my body has other ideas, drawn to his like gravity, unstoppable and inevitable.

In this moment, suspended between sense and sensation, I realize the truth I've been fighting all week: there's a thin line between hate and desire, between wanting to hurt someone and simply wanting them. And I'm balancing on that line now, uncertain which side I'll fall to.

"Why would I go anywhere with you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The question is genuine despite its defiant delivery. Why would I? Why am I even considering this when every rational part of me knows better?

Cade's thumb traces small circles at the nape of my neck, each touch sending ripples of awareness down my spine. His eyes never leave mine as he answers.

"For one, I'm positive you're only at this party because of me." The certainty in his voice should infuriate me, but the worst part is that he's right. I'd spent hours getting ready, deliberately choosing this outfit, this lingerie, knowing he might be here. "And two, I promised next time wouldn't be in some random bedroom at a party. So, choose — your place or mine?"

The implication that there was always going to be a next time hangs between us. Was this inevitable from the moment I followed him into that first bedroom? From our first real conversation in my apartment? Or even earlier, disguised as animosity all these years?

"Are you hiding it this time?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

He pulls back slightly, a surprised laugh tumbling from his lips. "No, I'm not running to tell Byron what's happening." His expression turns wry. "Learned that lesson the hard way."

"Scared because of what happened last time?" I can't resist the jab, even as I'm moving imperceptibly closer to him.

"Let's call it personal growth," he suggests, his hands settling at my waist.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, unexpected and genuine. "Personal growth? Then what the hell does hooking up with me again mean?"

Something flickers in his eyes — vulnerability, perhaps, or simple honesty. "It means I'm not doing as well with that growth as I thought." His grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing into my hips. "Apparently I can't resist a girl who hates me. I like the challenge, mixed with a little bit of off-limits."

The admission should offend me, but instead, it sends a thrill down my spine. There's something intoxicating about being wanted despite everything—or perhaps because of it.

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