Page 57 of Say You Hate Me
Whatever frenetic energybetween us today is gone, replaced by something I can’t quite articulate. Instead of roughly pulling him between my legs, I watch as he undresses, freeing his massive length. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good look at it, and the size alone makes me swallow once—twice—as I watch him stroke himself. A piece of hair falls forward, completely out of place from his usual neat hairstyle. His face is softer than before, and as I lean back onto his bed, laid bare, I realize that this doesn’t feel strange. There’s no fury driving us—just something else, some kind of delicate, exposed reverence.
He climbs between my legs, kissing my lips. The tip of his cock plays at my entrance, but surprisingly, I am enjoying the kissing. I am enjoying the way his breath tastes milky, the softness of his lips, the way his skin always smells citrus-y—like lemon, or orange spice. His arms support him on either side of me, and I reach up to stroke the hard, muscled biceps—the skin pale and warm, the flesh corded. My hands travel up to his bare shoulders, feeling the strength in those muscles. I move my hand over his ass, and he laughs.
“I didn’t take you for an ass woman,” he murmurs into my mouth.
“I didn’t think I was, but your ass is…”
“What?” he asks, driving into me slowly, the long shaft filling me to the hilt. I gasp. “My ass is what?” he repeats, pulling out and thrusting into me again. The motion rocks me back into the bed, my head hitting the headboard. He pulls me lower in one swift motion—handles me like I’m a fucking rag doll, and then he starts hammering into me.
“Your ass is…” I answer, but then his thumb circles the bundle of nerves at the top of my opening, and I moan. Loudly.
“Do it again,” he mutters, and when I snap my eyes to his, he’s watching me with hunger. Desperation. “Make that noise again, Natalia.”
The way he purrs my name causes me to clench around him, and we both moan in unison.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his face sweaty. I love seeing him sweat—seeing him work for my pleasure. He picks up the pace with his thumb, pressing down harder, circling wider. It’s a little sloppier, but since I’m close, it seems so much better. “You feel so fucking good,” he growls, rocking his hips into me.
“Harder,” I rasp, bucking myself against him, moving myself on him. He roars at the motion, watching as I control the tempo.
He leans forward and kisses me while I fuck him, milking his cock from my position beneath him. His hand moves so that it’s the fleshy part of his palm against my clit, and it means I can move against him—both his hand and his cock.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, looking between us as his glistening shaft takes control once again. “Faster. Harder,” I beg, wanting the full experience.
He moans in response, upping the tempo. And then he leans back, grabbing one leg and putting it over his shoulder. I don’t know what to do, because the sudden friction change, the way he’s able to goevendeeper, the way he hits the front of my cervix, coaxing just the right spot with both his cock and his hand…
I explode, rolling my hips against his length as he quakes.
“Shit,” he rumbles, his expression raw and open as he convulses, spilling into me. When he’s done, he collapses against me, and we both stay there for several seconds, panting loudly. “What the fuck are you doing to me,” he says quietly, his voice shaky.
When he rolls off me, I cover my face with my arm, laughing. “Tell me about it.”
He sits up and glances at his phone. I hobble to the bathroom to clean myself up. When I’m done—clad in a towel—I grab my bra and underwear. Anderson is already in bed with his boxers on, clicking away on his laptop.
“Okay, well, goodnight,” I say awkwardly.
“Natalia,” Anderson commands, meeting my gaze with his icy blue irises. “You can stay,” he offers, patting the space next to him.
He’s only offering to be nice. There’s no point in trying to convince ourselves this is anything other than sex.
“I should get back. Thanks, though,” I reply, turning and walking to the door before I change my mind.
The next morning,we all have a leisurely breakfast at the bed-and-breakfast. Anderson and I don’t talk about what happened, nor do we reallytalk—he’s on his phone for most of the meal, and I pretend to ask Luca about the latest newsletter we sent out on Friday. By the time we head upstairs to pack, it almost feels as though yesterday in its entirety didn’t happen. Anderson’s cool gaze hardly ever meets mine, and he talks business the entire car ride to the airport.
When we load ourselves into the tiny airplane, a wave of arousal hits me as Anderson helps me with my headset, giving me a wicked, cruel smile. There’s a delighted gleam in his eyes, but he doesn’t make any moves to recreate what happened on our flight up here—and Luca chats animatedly the entire flight.
As Anderson gives the tower a heads up that we’re landing at Burbank, I look over at him, and he gives me a knowing smile. The way his dimples indent, the way his glasses sit on his high cheekbones, and mostly, the way his normally smooth face is full of two-day-old scruff…
I am losing my mind over Anderson Møllen, and I don’t like it.
The landing is smooth, and Luca leaves immediately when we land, citing something about Nathan. He gives me a quick peck and winks at Anderson.
Anderson’s Tesla sits exactly where he parked it yesterday, and the entire drive to my apartment is tense, filled with something neither of us is willing to admit—that the hatred may be giving way to something else, something stronger. It permeates the air around us, threatening to swallow us whole.
As we pull into my driveway, I’m about to quickly hop out when Anderson grabs my arm, pulling me to face him.
“This weekend was fun,” he says, his voice husky. The sunset gives his skin a golden hue, and the sun reflects off his aviators.
“Yeah,” I agree, my breath hitching as he runs a finger along my jaw. As I’m about to lean forward, someone taps on the glass of the passenger seat window.
