Page 83 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

He’s still scrolling, his eyes scanning the screen as if he’s entitled to this information. I feel exposed, violated, the weight of his intrusion making my skin crawl. I can feel my frustration mounting, the need to lash out growing more and more, but he’s still holding it out of my reach.

“Give. It. Back,” I snap, stepping closer, trying once more to snatch the phone from his hand. But it’s no use. He’s not even breaking a sweat, keeping the phone just high enough to stay out of my grasp. “Thatcher, you’re such a goddamn child!” I yell, swiping at him again. My voice is shaking, and I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes despite myself.

He watches me with that maddeningly calm expression, his eyes dark and unreadable as I finally stop, my fists clenched at my sides, trembling with anger. The tears spill over as I glare at him, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

I suck in a breath, my control rattling, “God, I fucking hate you so much!”

He freezes, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible, but enough to make me realize I’ve struck a nerve. The playful air that seemed to follow him like a second skin dissipates in an instant and something darker flashes in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The room feels unbearably still, the tension pressing down on me like a heavy weight. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and sharp.

“What did you say?”

His tone sends a chill down my spine, but my anger burns too hot to care. I lift my chin, my voice trembling but unwavering. “I said I hate you,” I repeat, my chest heaving as I meet his gaze head-on.

The words barely leave my mouth before he steps closer, and I instinctively take a step back, the edge of the sink pressing into my lower back. His presence looms over me, suffocating and electric, the intensity in his gaze igniting a storm in my chest.

“You don’t know real hate, Dove,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, his frame vibrating with restrained fury. “Hate is when you feel pure rage in your bones every time you see someone’s face. You can’t think straight, can’t breathe, can’t focus on anything else.” He inches closer, his words like firelicking at my skin. “It’s like poison, consuming you from the inside out. You feel like you’re going to explode if you don’t hurt them, break them, destroy every part of what they are. And even then, it’s not enough.”

My breath catches, my heart racing as his gaze pierces mine, unrelenting and raw.

“But you don’t feel that do you?” he pauses, his voice softer now, almost mocking. “What you feel is different. You may think it’s hate, but it isn’t. Not even close.”

“You’re wrong,” I snap, my voice cracking under the weight of his intensity. The words taste bitter in my mouth as I glare at him.

He tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into a small, infuriating smirk.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his tone a challenge, dripping with certainty. He locks the bathroom door and then turns to me. “I bet you would let me fuck you right here.”

His words make me flinch. The ache is stronger now.

He brushes my hair behind my ear. “I bet that pussy wants relief.” He unbuttons my jeans as I inhale. “I bet you would fucking love it for the waitress to hear you moaning in here, knowing you have what she cannot have.”

His hand slips into my pants. “I didn’t know you were so chivalrous.”

He smiles slightly, kissing my cheek. “Dove…” His finger enters me, curling right into the perfect spot. I grab onto his shoulders as pleasure bursts through my body. “Kiss me.”

I smash my lips against his, hungry for this release. He lifts my ass onto the sink, hooking me with his long middle finger and rubbing my clit with his thumb. It doesn’t take me long before I start convulsing under his spell.

“Told you,” he whispers, his voice low and laced with triumph, his lips brushing against mine as he speaks. His gaze flickersover my face, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This isn’t hate.”

I grab his face, and the physical force I use causes him to hook deeper into my pussy. I stare into his eyes, feeling a new hunger rip through me. “You promised me protection.”

“You’re not in prison right now, are you?” he replies in a condescending tone.

“I don’t want these people talking about me…or you.”

His lips curl, bringing them closer to mine. “I knew that pretty fucking mouth would soon be saying words I wanted to hear.” His eyes burn with satisfaction, that maddening smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m serious, Thatcher.”

He pulls away and licks his fingers that were inside of me, staring into my eyes. My heart cracks open as I watch in fascination.

“The pancakes are getting cold,” he says casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t upended everything I thought I knew. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out, the door swinging shut behind him.

The room feels impossibly quiet in his absence, the air still crackling with tension. I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, and my eyes are wide, gleaming with emotions that I can’t start unpacking right now.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady myself, but the image staring back at me doesn’t feel like me. It feels like someone else entirely. Splashing water on my face helps a bit and somehow, my legs manage to carry me out of the bathroom. When I reenter the dining area, my eyes find him immediately.

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