Page 56 of What If I Hate You
"Show me," I whisper.
And he does.
His mouth crashes back into mine with renewed hunger, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair while the other slides down to grip my thigh, pulling me tighter against him. The hard ridge of his arousal presses into me, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core, and I can't help but rock against him, chasing the friction. I also can’t hold back the whimper that escapes my lips.
"Fuck, the sounds you make," he whispers. "I could listen to them all night."
His lips travel from my mouth to my jaw, trailing hot kisses down my neck, and I tilt my head back, giving him better access. His teeth graze my pulse point and my whole body shudders, a soft moan escaping me when he finds that spot just below my ear.
My hands find their way under his shirt, and he gasps audibly at my first touch, like he hasn’t been touched in so long he forgot what it feels like. I trace the hard planes of his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. He's so warm, so solid beneath me. Nothing like the cold, aloof man I thought he was.
"Take this off," I murmur, tugging at his shirt. He obliges immediately, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion and tossing it aside. I can't help but stare. I've seen him shirtless before—glimpses in the locker room when I was rushing through interviews and a few times on the plane—but never like this. This is different. This is Barrett offering himself to me, vulnerable and wanting.
His body is a masterpiece of strength and scars, each one telling a story of sacrifice and pain. I trace a particularly nasty one that runs along his collarbone, feeling the raised ridge beneath my fingertips.
"Skate blade, 2019," he explains quietly. "Twelve stitches."
I lean down and press my lips to it—a gesture so intimate it makes him shudder.
“Fuck, Blakely.”
His hands tighten on my hips, and then they're moving again, sliding under my blouse, his calloused palms rough against my skin, my body arching into his touch like it's been starved for him. His fingers dance along my ribs, tracing patterns that leave goosebumps in their wake.
"This okay?" he asks, his voice rough with desire but still careful, still checking.
"More than okay," I breathe, and then I'm reaching for the buttons, suddenly desperate to feel more of his skin against mine. My fingers fumble in my haste, and he gently pushes my hands away.
"Let me," he murmurs, taking over with surprising dexterity, and there's something about the reverence in his voice that makes my heart stutter.
Button by button, he undoes my shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. When he finally pushes the fabric from my shoulders, his breath catches audibly as he takes in my lace-covered breasts.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, voice thick with desire. "Even more than I imagined."
"You imagined this?" I ask, breathless at the thought of Barrett Cunningham fantasizing about me.
His laugh is low and rough. "Every damn day since I met you."
His confession sends a wave of heat through me. The idea that this man—this frustrating, complicated, beautiful man—has been thinking about me this way all along makes my head spin. His eyes hold mine as he reaches behind me, fingers finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. He pauses, waiting for my permission, and I nod, unable to form words as desire floods through me. The straps slide down my arms, and then I'm exposed to him, vulnerable in a way I've never been with anyone else.
"Fucking Christ," he breathes, as his hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden beneath his touch.
“Oh, my God, Bear,” I whimper as I arch into him, gasping when his mouth replaces his fingers, hot and wet and perfect.
His tongue flicks against my nipple and I nearly come undone right there on his kitchen floor. My fingers thread through his hair, tugging on the strands, holding him to meas pleasure spirals through my body. The cold tile beneath my knees contrasts with the burning heat of his mouth, creating a sensory overload that has me trembling.
"Barrett," I gasp, grinding down against him, desperate for more friction. "I need?—"
"I know what you need," he murmurs against my skin, hands sliding down to grip my ass, guiding my movements. "I can feel how wet you are through your clothes."
The words send another rush of heat between my legs, and I'm not even embarrassed by how desperately I'm rocking into him now. His mouth captures mine again, swallowing my moans as his hands continue their exploration, sliding around to the button of my pants.
"Can I touch you?" he asks, fingers hovering at my waistband, his voice rough with need but still seeking permission.
"Yes," I breathe, the single word barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "God, yes."
He makes quick work of the button on my pants, and I lift myself off his lap enough to get them off. The cold air hits my thighs as I'm left in just my underwear, straddling him on his kitchen floor. His hands slide up my bare thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake. When his fingers finally brush against the damp fabric between my legs, I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily against his touch.
"So, fucking wet," he groans, his stroke gentle but insistent as he explores me. "Is this all for me, Blakely?"
