Page 174 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You’ve never trusted me,” I sigh, the words coming out harsher than I intended. “Not really. You’re always waiting for me to prove you right and run away.”
She pushes back immediately. “That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it? You’re always braced for me to let you down.”
Juliet sucks in a breath, her brown eyes impossibly dark. “That’s not about you; that’s about me. Patrick and my parents and everyone else who made promises they didn’t keep broke me.”
I grab her chin with two fingers. “But I’m not them.”
She purses her lips, softening.
“I know that. But knowing it and feeling it are different things.”
We stare at each other for a long, loaded moment, the accusation in my voice still vibrating in the air. Juliet’s jaw works. I can see the white heat of anger and hurt flicker across her face, but then she surges forward, kissing me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t sweet. There’s nothing apologetic or hesitant about the way she crushes her mouth to mine. Our teeth clacking, lips bruising.
Her hands knot in my hair. She tugs just hard enough to snap my head back, like she’s daring me to flinch, to fight her off, to be the man she expects to leave. I don’t. I dig my hands into her hips and drag her on top of me, answering her with the same open-mouthed desperation.
The rhythm of our bodies turns frantic, clumsy. My hands slide up her thighs, under the hem of my old shirt. She arches into my touch, nails scraping along my jawline. I feel the scratch of them for real, a living stinging line, like she wants to mark me and leave evidence for the morning after.
I want it. IneedJuliet to mark me as hers.
I flip us so she’s on her back, pinning her wrists above her head. She stares up at me, daring me to say what I’m thinking, to call her bluff. I don’t know whether I want to fuck her or yell at her. Maybe both. Maybe it’s the same thing right now.
I bite her lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, but she makes a soft sound. Half gasp, half challenge. I feel it all the way through my chest.
I husk out, “Where’s my good girl gone?”
She grunts. “Don’t know. I’m the only one here now.”
She wraps her legs around my waist and claws her shirt off her body, leaving it bunched around one wrist. Beyond her beauty, there’s more to her. She’s alive under me, every nerve ending firing, every muscle taut with need and defiance.
I want to memorize her like this. Raw and furious and real. I want this to be my memory every damn night as I fall asleep. Snaking my head into her hair, I tug her head back, running my lips down her throat and collarbone.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “Don’t you fucking stop, Hux.”
It’s not a plea; it’s a fucking command. She’s not afraid of me. And she’s not going anywhere, at least not tonight.
For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of clothing hitting the floor as I strip her panties off and scramble out of my clothes. She sucks in a breath when she’s naked before me, exposed, but I’m not after that today. I don’t have the patience to tease her.
Lining up my heavy cock, I push into her, sucking my teeth. “Fuuuuuck, Monroe.”
We both go still for a second, breath catching. Then it’s frantic again, hands and mouths and hips slamming together.
“Hunter!” She bucks against me wildly. “Fuck, you’re so big.”
Without missing a beat, I thrust against her, going as deep as I can.
“Too big?”
“Not for a second.” She claims my lips again.
She’s loud and unashamed, making noises that would make a church-going lady blush. I answer with my own wordless low growls, the sounds I haven’t let myself make since I was a teenager.
She scratches lines down my back, marking me again. And I lose control, pounding into her with a force that would terrify me if I could think straight. I want to carve myself into her memory, make it impossible for her to forget me even if she tried.
Monroe meets me with every step, every thrust, holding me in place with her clutched hands and her eyes.
