Page 49 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

The admission shouldn't affect me the way it does, shouldn't make me feel both powerful and vulnerable simultaneously. But knowing that he's been just as haunted as I have, just as unable to forget, soothes something raw inside me.

"I have, too," I whisper, the confession like releasing a weight I didn't know I was carrying. "Even while I was telling myself how much I hate you."

A small smile touches his lips. "And do you? Still hate me?"

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. Do I hate him? The arrogant, infuriating Cade who dismisses me in hallways and reconciles with his brother while I suffer alone? Maybe. But this Cade, who looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once? Who admits to wanting me despite his better judgment?

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "I want to."

"But?" he prompts, eyes never leaving mine.

"But I also want you," I admit, the words both terrifying and liberating. "And I can't seem to make those two things fit together in my head."

He steps closer, until our bodies are almost touching, the heat of him palpable through our clothes. "Maybe they're not supposed to fit together," he suggests. "Maybe this is messy and complicated and doesn't make sense."

"Then why are we doing it?"

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. "Because some things are worth the mess."

When his lips meet mine, it feels like surrendering and conquering all at once. His kiss is questioning at first, giving me space to pull away, to change my mind. But as my arms wind around his neck, drawing him closer, all hesitation vanishes. He kisses me like he's starving, like I'm essential, and something inside me unfurls in response.

We move backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, our bodies still pressed together as if separation might break whatever spell we've cast. His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers skimming the sensitive skin beneath.

"Is this okay?" he asks against my lips, ever cautious despite the desire evident in his touch.

"Yes," I breathe, the single syllable carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, really look at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of doubt or regret. Finding none, he smiles — not the cocky smirk I'm used to, but something softer, more genuine.

"We can stop anytime," he promises, and I believe him. "Just say the word."

But as his fingers trace the edge of the lace bodysuit beneath my shirt, as his lips kiss my neck, stopping is the furthest thing from my mind. Tonight, I'll worry about the consequences tomorrow. Tonight, I'll allow myself this impossible connection, this desire that defies logic and common sense.

Tonight, I'll embrace the contradiction of wanting someone I should hate, and let the pieces fall where they may.

Chapter 15

"It should turn me off," I murmur against her neck, "knowing how much you hate me."

My fingers trace the curve of her waist, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. The contradiction of her fascinates me — how she can claim to despise me while her body arches toward mine, seeking closer contact.

"But it doesn't," I continue, moving my lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. "It does something to me, knowing you can't resist me."

Her breath catches, a small sound that sends heat coursing through my veins. I pull back slightly, taking in the sight of her — flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes dark with a mixture of defiance and desire. The knowledge that she wore that lingerie tonight, that she chose it deliberately with me in mind, unravels something primal within me.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended. "Wearing this under your clothes, just for me?"

She doesn't answer, but her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me back to her with an urgency that speaks volumes. I resist, keeping just enough distance to maintain eye contact.

"Tonight's going to be different," I tell her, the promise low and intense between us. "I'm going to take my time with you. Make you forget why you think you hate me."

Her eyes challenge me even as her body responds, a contradiction that makes me hornier. I want to dismantle her resistance piece by piece, replace it with pleasure so intense she can't remember why she ever wanted to deny this connection between us.

"Take off your shirt," I instruct, stepping back to give her space.

She hesitates for just a moment before complying, her movements deliberate as she pulls it over her head and lets it fall to the floor. The sight of her steals my breath — the black lace bodysuit hugging every curve, the straps cross over her shoulders, the intricate pattern revealing glimpses of soft skin beneath.

"Turn around," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

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