Page 62 of Hate the One You're With
I break the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, which are glazed with lust and something more. “I want you so fucking bad, can you feel it, baby?” I murmur, my voice rough with desire as I press my hips up, letting her feel just how hard I am. “But you’re punishing us both, aren’t you? Pretending to be someone you’re not.”
She bites her lip, her eyes searching mine, and I can see the struggle within her, the push and pull between what she wants and what she’s trying to hide.
“But I’m not going to fuck you until you’re ready,” I continue, my tone firm but laced with heat. “Until you stoppretending and let me in. You’re not just punishing yourself—you’re punishing me, too. And we both know it.”
Her breath hitches, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes, but I hold my ground, waiting. The tension between us is electric, the anticipation almost too much to bear, but I won’t give in until she’s ready to let go of the façade.
I brush my thumb over her lower lip, my gaze locked on hers. “When I finally take you, Em,” I whisper, my voice filled with promise, “it’s going to be because you’re bringing my girl back to me from wherever you hid her. Do you understand? I want her back with me. The girl I fell in love with. My wife. I fucking miss her.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emmersyn
I’m perchedon his lap, straddling him, my body pressing down on his very hard, rock-solid cock. His words still echo in my mind, reverberating through the haze of lust and desire that’s clouding my thoughts. His touch, his voice, the way he looks at me—it’s all too much, too intense. The heat between us is overwhelming, a fire that’s been reignited and is nowburning out of control.
He misses his wife.
He misses me.
The real me.
My heart clenches at the thought, torn between the overwhelming need to be close to him and the cold logic that’s telling me to pull back, to protect myself. I can feel the steady throb of arousal between my legs, the way my body aches for him, my core practically dripping, desperate to take him inside me. I want it—God, I want it so badly I can hardly breathe.
But I know the risk. I know what happens when I let him in too far, when I let myself believe that this time it will be different.
Every part of me is screaming for more—for all of him. I want to lose myself in him, in the way he makes me feel. I want to forget about the walls I’ve built, the fear that’s kept me distant, the pain that’s always lurking just beneath the surface. I want to be his again, to give in to the longing that’s been tearing me apart for so long.
But logic has always been my savior, my shield against getting hurt again. And right now, it’s telling me to stay away, to keep those walls up, because I know how easily I can burn when I let them down. I know how deeply I can be hurt when I give him all of me.
I look into his eyes, seeing the raw, unfiltered emotion there, the need that mirrors my own. I want to trust it, to believe that this time it’s safe to let go. But I’m scared—scared that if I let him in, I’ll lose myself again, and I’m not sure I can survive that a second time.
The desire, the longing, the fear—it’s all tangled together, making it impossible to think clearly. I’m caught betweenwanting to dive headfirst into the flames and the instinct to pull back before I get burned. But I can’t move. I can’t make the choice.
So I just sit there, trembling on the edge, his hands on my skin, his words in my ears, his hardness pressed against me, and my heart caught somewhere in between.
“You’re fighting it, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Only bad girls deserve punishment. Do you deserve some spanking, baby?”
My mind betrays me, instantly conjuring up the image of him spanking me, his hand coming down hard on my ass while his fingers slide inside me, teasing me, pushing me to the brink. I can almost feel it—the sting of his palm, the way he’d play with me, how he used to push a finger deeper, maybe even teasing my ass, driving me wild until I couldn’t think straight.
And then, how his lips would follow, soothing the heat he’d left behind, kissing and nibbling my skin, making me shiver as he whispered promises of what else he was going to do to me. It’s how we used to play before everything went wrong, before the walls went up and we started pretending.
“Stop it,” I order, my voice shaky, trying to regain control. “Stop playing with my head.”
“I’m not playing, Em. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck happened to us and how to bring you back. We were happy, and then . . .”
He trails off, his frustration palpable. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. He’s right, and I hate it. I hate that he sees through me, that he knows exactly how to push all the right buttons. My body isbetraying me, craving the very thing I know I should resist. But resisting him feels like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a paper towel.
I take a shaky breath, my resolve faltering as the memories flood back—how he used to take control, how he made me feel safe and wild all at once. The way he’d spank me just hard enough to make me gasp, then soothe the sting with his lips, his mouth trailing over my heated skin, his tongue teasing me until I was trembling with need. It was intoxicating, and it’s killing me to admit how much I miss it, how much I miss him.
But I can’t let him in—not all the way. Not again. If I do, I know I’ll lose myself in him, and that terrifies me. So I steel myself, even as my body aches for his touch, for the release I know only he can give me. I wish I could just let him take control, let everything go for once. But it’s impossible. If I do . . .
“How do I know that was real? You . . . us. I paid you to do it. You just got tired too fast.” My voice trembles as I say the words, my heart hammering in my chest.
I push against his chest, sliding off his lap and putting distance between us. The warmth of his body fades, leaving a cold ache in its place. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his face.
“It was the most fucking real thing I’ve ever had in my life. But I fucked up,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I pushed you away, and I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had trusted you. But . . . you’d already done so much for me.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, confusion mixing with a flicker of hope in my chest.
