Page 100 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
My mouth hangs open. “You’re full of shit.”
“I’m dead serious. I didn’t know that journalist was going to print that quote. But I’m still sorry, Juliet. If I could go back in time, I’d do it differently.”
I believe him. I can see the regret written all over his face, the genuine remorse. But it doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t change how small he made me feel, or how that feeling led me to spend five years with someone who made me feel even smaller.
“Patrick always made me feel like a transaction,” I mumble. “Like love was something I had to earn by being small enough. Soft enough. Quiet enough. Less.”
Hunter’s jaw tightens. “He was wrong.”
“Was he?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and vulnerable. “Because sometimes I think he was right. Sometimes I think I’m too much. Too ambitious, too intense, too...”
“Too what?”
“Too everything.”
Hunter stares at me for a moment, then reaches out to touch my foot gently. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to say it. Just... don’t sit here alone with it.”
His quiet comfort is everything. I look at his mouth, his hands, the soft place at his throat where I want to press my lips. When he moves like he’s going to get up, probably to give me space, I make another choice.
I tug him closer and kiss him again.
He murmurs, “I’m going to ruin you. You realize that, right? Make it so no other man can ever please you.”
I groan. “Hunter, your mouth. The things that come out of it are disgusting.”
His chuckle vibrates through me. “You love my filthy mouth.”
He bends down so far to reach me. Sometimes, I swear that kissing him feels like I am climbing a mountain, and my legs are not ready for the hike.
This time, our kiss is different. Slower, more intentional. Like we have all the time in the world instead of three months and a contract between us.
“Juliet,” he murmurs against my lips, but I can hear the surrender in his voice.
“I know that our situation feels complicated,” I whisper. “I know this thing ends. But right now, I don’t want to think about that.”
We’re back to pulling at clothes, but it’s less frantic now. More like exploration than desperation. When his mouth finds my breast, I arch into him, shocked by how sensitive I am, how every touch sends electricity straight through me.
“God, you’re responsive,” he breathes against my skin.
I should feel embarrassed, but I’m not. Not with him looking at me like I’m a gift he can’t believe he gets to unwrap.
“Only for you,” I groan. “Only you make me feel this way, Huxley.”
I move against him again, seeking friction, and he reaches his hand between our bodies. I gasp as he pulls up my skirt and presses his fingers against the spreading damp spot on the front of my panties. It’s exactly where I need him most. The touch is electric and I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily.
“You’re so wet,” he marvels, his fingers moving in slow circles. “Fuck, Juliet.”
I try to pull away, embarrassed by my body’s obvious response, but he catches my wrist.
“Don’t,” he says urgently. “Don’t hide from me. Let me make you feel good.”
There’s something desperate in his voice, like he needs this as much as I do. “It’s all I want,” he continues. “To be useful. To matter.”
The vulnerability of those words undoes me completely. This giant man in front of me, begging to take care of me, is so different from the arrogant asshole I thought I knew.
I stay, sucking in a breath and nodding quickly.
Circling my clit, he touches me like he means it. As if he’s memorizing every response, every sound I make.
