Page 108 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You’ve been... nicer lately,” I say, observing him. “Less Chainsaw, more actual human man.”
He snorts. “It’s because you threatened to beat me with a clipboard.”
“Or,” I say with a smirk, “because you’re trying. And I see it.”
He grunts, but I can tell he’s kind of proud of himself. There’s been something different about him in the last few days. Looser. More comfortable in his own skin.
This is dangerous territory.
See, this whole fake dating thing is still just a game that I excel at. But if I let Hunter touch me, let this go a little further, it might get harder.
I can keep the upper hand. I can compartmentalize it like I do everything else. It’ll just take some real sticking to my own boundaries.
I adjust the hem of my tank top, suddenly aware of how much skin I’m showing. The movement draws his attention. When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“You’re staring at my tits again,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
Hunter blinks, slow and unbothered. “Not really.”
I glare at him. “Want to try that again?”
“Look, tits are great. Yours seem spectacular.” He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “But I’ve always been an ass man.”
I open my mouth, then close it. That... was not the answer I expected. I was prepared for denial or deflection or even shameless admission, not this casual redirection.
Hunter tilts his head, watching me like I’m something he’s trying to solve. His voice is rougher when he says, “Lately, I think I’m becoming a lip guy. That lipstick you always wear haunts my fucking dreams, Monroe.”
The flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. It’s the way he says it, like he’s been thinking about my mouth. Like he’s been wanting to do things to it.
He catches the blush, of course he does, and smiles like a man who just won something important.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he says, leaning closer. “And it’s still a good look on you.”
The space between us feels vast and yet too narrow. I lick my lips and glance at him, trying to feel him out. Suddenly, it’s like we’re balanced on the edge of something that will change everything once we cross it.
“Hunter,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
He’s the one who moves first, closing the space between us without a word. One second I’m staring at the hard line of his jaw, the next his mouth is on mine. The kiss steals my breath. It isn’t cautious or questioning. It’s fierce and certain, like he’s been holding back too long and finally snapped.
The taste hits me instantly. Toothpaste lingers in his mouth. A hint of salt clings to his skin, and I nip at him, curious. There’s something sharp tasting to our kiss, like adrenaline. It makes me shiver.
His lips are hot against mine, rough and demanding, moving with a hunger that makes me ache. I make a sound, a whimper, and he devours it, licking the seam of my lips. My body answers before my brain can catch up. I lean in, parting for him, chasing every flick of his tongue like I’ll starve without it.
Heat rushes through me, climbing from my chest into my throat. I catch a faint trace of his cologne, cedar and spice mixed with the clean bite of a fresh shower. His stubble scrapes my chin and I tremble. Everything about it is raw and overwhelming, like I’ve stepped straight into a fire.
I’ve waited for this moment for far too long and now I’m gluttonous.
The more I give, the more he takes. His hand knots in my hair and pulls just enough to tilt my head back. The kiss deepens and I gasp against his mouth. This sound gets swallowed instantly too, and he growls like it sets him off.
My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric, desperate for something to hold.
Every sense is lit up at once. The solid weight of his chest pressed against mine. The heat of his breath on my cheek. He kisses me like he can’t decide if he wants to worship me or ruin me, and maybe it’s both.
