Page 121 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I nod, thinking about how different the three Huxley brothers are. Silas with his quiet discipline, Jett with his cocky bravado, Hunter with the walls he builds and the fists he throws. I like that he trusts me enough to let me take charge, even if it’s only for a minute.
“Maybe we wait,” I say finally. “Give it a chance to blow over first. Something else might happen in the next few hours that sucks the oxygen away from the story.”
Hunter grins, a real one this time. “Good call, Firecracker.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start with the nicknames again.”
He laughs, the sound low and unguarded. I feel the sound low in my stomach, for a second remembering the events of yesterday. The way his mouth felt on my skin, the way his hands gripped my thighs like he never wanted to let go.
I think about telling him. Genuinely, I do. I imagine saying the words.
Hey, I saw what Patrick said about me, and it gutted me. I need you to tell me I’m not cold or impossible to love. I want you to say that I’m not just a placeholder for the real thing.
But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t have the guts to ask my worst enemy to comfort me.
Instead, I finish my coffee and busy myself cleaning the kitchen, wiping flour from the counter and stacking the dirty bowls in the sink. Hunter watches for a moment, then stands and moves behind me, crowding me against the counter.
He rests a hand on my hip, the touch light but grounding.
I turn around, and he’s there. From here, it’s impossible to miss the stormy gray of his eyes, the faint pink scar under his left cheekbone, the place where his hair refuses to behave no matter how often he brushes it down.
“Jesus,” I whisper, startled.
He grins. “You always get this flustered around me, Monroe?”
I roll my eyes, but my heart rate spikes anyway. “Only when you sneak up on me. Do you want another cookie?”
He ignores the cookies. “Do you want another orgasm?”
My hands tighten on the edge of the counter. My face goes instantly hot, blood rushing in all the places he made it rush last night.
“You liked it,” he says, voice velvet-rough. “When I made you come.”
I can’t look at him, so I stare at the kitchen tile. I want to deny it, joke, or brush him off, but everyone can see the truth on my face.
“I liked it,” I admit, the words small and hot.
“Just liked it?” He moves closer. I swear I feel heat radiating off his skin. His hand is heavy on the counter beside mine, boxing me in. “Because I can’t stop thinking about it. You. The sounds you made. The way you looked at me when I made you come all over my face.”
I’m speechless. For once in my over-scheduled, over-articulated life, I have nothing to say.
He leans down, his breath hot at my ear. “I bet you’re already wet, thinking about it.”
My pulse jumps. He’s right. It’s humiliating how fast my body betrays me. My nipples harden, my lower body knots, and heat gathers between my thighs. God, I’m so easy. I toss back my head, staring up at him, a challenge.
“Is that what you wanted to ask me?” I shoot back, desperate to reclaim an inch of high ground.
“No,” he says. “I wanted to see if you’d beg for it.”
He kisses me before I can answer. Not gently. There’s nothing gentle about Hunter Huxley when he wants something. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, and it steals the oxygen right out of my lungs. I kiss him back, frantic, my hands on his bare skin, scrabbling to pull him closer.
He makes a sound deep in his chest, almost a growl. In the next second he’s lifting me onto the counter, cookies rattling behind me as he crowds my knees apart and slots himself between my thighs. He’s already hard, pressing against me through both our layers of clothing, and my body answers before my brain can catch up.
It’s chaos. His mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing my jaw, my hands clawing under his shirt to feel the perfect abs I’ve been dying to touch since the day I saw them glisten with sweat at training camp. My legs wrap around him, heels digging into his back. He palms my ass, squeezing, and I gasp.
“We’re supposed to be fake dating,” I gasp, biting down on the word fake like it’s the last defense I have.
He bites my shoulder in retaliation, just enough to leave a mark. “This doesn’t feel fake.”
