Page 100 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“Tell me this is just stress relief,” he growls.

“It’s not.”

He backs me toward the bedroom, still kissing me like he’s starving, like I’m the only thing that can fix this ache under his skin.

And I feel it too.

I don’t know how this ends.

But I know exactly how it begins.

And it starts with him. Right here. Right now.

We fall onto the bed like we’ve done this a thousand times, but we haven’t. It’s still new and wild. His hands are on my thighs, pulling me closer as I straddle him, both of us breathless and shaking, not from nerves but from pure emotion and confusion that is happening right now.

“You drive me insane,” I whisper against his lips.

“Good,” he growls, flipping us without warning. I gasp as my back hits the mattress, and his body cages me in all the best ways. “Because I think about you all the damn time.”

His mouth traces a path down my neck, slow and possessive, like he wants to learn every inch. I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, caressing until he groans.

“You don’t play fair,” I say.

He grins against my skin. “Neither do you.”

We’re a tangle of limbs and curses, gasping out each other’s names like confessions, as we claw at fabric. His hoodie is the first to go—I shove it up his chest and he helps, yanking it over his head and tossing it to the floor. My fingers dive under the waistband of his joggers, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles. He growls when I palm him through his briefs.

“Fuck, Nina,” he hisses, hands already under my shirt. “Take this off. Now.”

I pull the shirt over my head in one motion, and his hands are on my back immediately, unclasping my bra with practiced ease. He groans as he drags it down my arms, mouthing over the swell of one breast while his thumb teases the other.

“You’re unreal,” he mutters against my skin. “Every damn inch of you.”

My leggings are next. He kneels and slowly peels them down, kissing the inside of each thigh as he does, his scruff scraping lightly in a way that makes me shiver. Then his mouth is on my stomach, tracing a slow line up to my chest again, pausing just long enough to drive me insane.

When I reach for the waistband of his briefs, he grabs my wrist.

“Let me,” he says, voice rough and dark. He peels them off slowly, and on his way back up, he deliberately, drags his tongue over my hipbone before kissing up between my breasts, along my collarbone, and then my mouth again.

We’re naked, fully, finally, and he looks at me like I’m everything.

He takes his time—his hands exploring every curve, every arch. He tongues my nipple, then trails lower, tasting, learning, claiming. By the time his mouth moves between my legs, I’m already a shaking, moaning, and desperate mess.

I tug at his hair as his tongue circles and presses. He flattens it, groans into me, and I cry out. “Alex—oh my god—”

“I’m not stopping,” he growls. “Not until you come for me first.”

I do. With his name on my lips, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulders as he holds me through it.

And that’s before he even enters me.

“I don’t want to want you this much,” I whisper.

He stills for half a second, gaze locked to mine. “Then stop pretending you don’t.”

The kiss that follows is brutal—tongue, teeth, gasped breaths—and it’s everything I need. His hands are everywhere, and mine are no better. I reach down between us, fingers wrapping around his hard length, marveling at the heat and weight of him in my palm as he grinds against me.

“I hate that you make me forget everything else,” I pant.

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