Page 79 of Say You Hate Me
I remove my hand as we pull up to a light. “I guess we can wait.” He glares at me until the light turns green, but I shrug and wink.
I should know that winding him up after three weeks of celibacy would result in him pulling me onto his lap the second we get to his house—that his need for me is so potent, he can’t wait the thirty seconds it’ll take to walk inside. Moving his seat back, he inches my dress up my thighs then tears my thong off—literally tears it. I moan and rock into him as he lowers me onto his cock. Slowly—like it’s the first time. A sound rumbles in his throat, and then he drives into me. I cry out, holding on to the grab handle on the driver’s side. I lower my mouth to his, moving my hips against him, riding him until he bites my lower lip, and he hardens further inside me.
“You’re going to make me come,” he mutters, breathing heavily.
“So do it,” I order, moving my hips faster.
He grips my thighs and stops my movement, growling. “I want to come with you.” And then he moves his hand to my clit, thumbing the nub ever so gently. The feeling of having him inside me while he does this is exquisite. I’m full in ways only toys have accomplished in the past, both sensitive spots being stimulated at the same time. I circle my hips ever so slightly, but Anderson’s breathing gets louder.
A little part of me loves torturing him.
He licks his thumb and then moves it faster, edging around his cock, feeling where we’re joined. The sensation of it sends a white-hot spark flying through me, and I arch my back as my climax fires off. He moves his thumb quicker now, pressing down harder, slowly driving into me. I tighten around him as everything in my body throbs, and then he flicks my clit hard, and I lose it on top of him, writhing and shaking.
“Fuck, you’re making me come,” he says, his voice ragged and edged with emotion.
My core grips him hard with every wave—and then he growls as he spills into me without any movement. I look down and moan as he pulses inside me, his thumb and his cock slowing as he finishes. The only sound is our heavy breathing, and it’s then that I realize the windows are completely fogged up. Laughing, I collapse on top of him, and he kisses me tenderly.
“Say it,” he demands, his blue eyes finding mine. He has that same expression on his face—the one that’s unsure, and maybe a little terrified. “Say you hate me.”
I smile, remembering the vineyard. “I can’t.”
He grins, and I swear it’s the best feeling in the world to know that I can make him this happy—that I can take away the scowl, the furrowed brows.
“And why not?” he asks casually.
I shake my head and look away. “I love you,” I mutter, my voice low and soft.
“What?” he asks, giving me a confused look. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”
“I love you!” I yell, kissing him.
He laughs as he fists my hair. “I love you, too,” he adds, talking into my mouth. I kiss him until the cold sneaks up on us—until he hardens again, and we have slow, sensual sex as the rain pounds against his car. By the time we make it into his house, I’m utterly exhausted. I note the tingle in my chest, and the way my mind is fuzzy. Anderson and I get ready for bed, and he cradles me in his arms as our breathing syncs.
And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here—in the arms of the man I used to hate—the man I thought would ruin my life.
Now I know.
The deeper the hate, the deeper the love.
Epilogue
Natalia
Three years later
I swing on the hammock,a drink in hand, as the warm, Sicilian breeze brushes the hair out of my face. As I close my eyes, the warm sun sinks into my tanned skin, and I realize that this is the most relaxed I’ve ever felt. The romance book I’m reading is resting on my lap, and the heat causes me to doze off. I wake only when the pages flip open and flay against my bare skin. I open my eyes slowly, and I can’t help but smile as I lift my Campari to my mouth and take a sip of the sweet, bitter liquid. It’s midday, and the terraced garden on the roof is golden yellow with sunlight. I sit up and finish my drink, setting it on the ground as I watch the waves breaking on the beach a few blocks away from us.
It’s quiet and peaceful, the perfect escape from Los Angeles. I look at all the terracotta-tiled roofs and let out a sigh of contentment. As I’m about to lie back down, Anderson walks up the steps, fresh drinks in his hand. I admire the way his shorts hang off his hips, and the new, golden tan on his pale skin. His hair is almost white now, bleached from the sun—as is his scruff. I like to joke that it’s not blond but grey—since he’s forty-six now, and closer to fifty than when we met.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and he sets the drinks down before pulling me into his chest. We swing from side to side.
“Of course,” he murmurs in my ear. “This is perfect,” he adds, humming.
“I know.”
We swing like this for a few minutes, both of us sun-drunk and warm. Eventually we sit on the chair in our bathing suits, chatting about our day and what we picked up at the market. When we go back into the flat, I show him the mussels that I scored from one of the fishermen, and he pulls a fresh loaf of bread out of his reusable grocery bag.
“We should plant some flowers up there,” I muse, thinking of the colorful pots we can set around the border of the roof.
